Damascus Road
by JubileeKnight
Summary: It doesn't matter where on the path you are, as long as you are headed in the right direction. Currently, Edmund isn't even aware he's on a journey. Bookverse. Chapter Seven: Think it Mercy
1. Of Elements and An Angelic Sprite

**Damascus Road**

 **Chapter One: Of Elements and An Angelic Sprite**

" _I am a little world made cunningly_

 _Of elements and an angelic sprite…"_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations V_

London, December 1939

The trouble with having three siblings and a small house was that one could rarely find privacy when it was wanted, especially when one shared a bedroom with an older brother who had more friends than any one person needed, all of whom fawned over him disgustingly. Most of the decent hiding places in the house were known to the others, and while it was usually possible for Edmund to hustle his younger sister out of a desired location, that only meant Peter or Susan would be along soon to lecture him. If Mum became involved, it was a thousand times worse. With Dad off reporting on the front, there had been a solemn agreement (of which Edmund was, admittedly, the most frequent violator) not to 'worry Mother,' and the older ones would be on his case without mercy.

This particular afternoon, the first back from school for the holidays, was one on which Edmund particularly needed privacy. Obtaining it would require quick action. He wished an airy "Happy Christmas" to Brimlow and Wilkes at the platform, caught sight of Peter in conversation with Herbert Stephens, and darted down an alley that would take him home by the back way. He wanted to be gone before his brother thought to collar him for the walk home. Peter seemed to think that Dad's absence entitled him to order his younger siblings about, and Edmund had no need for a keeper. It meant leaving Peter with both trunks, but if his older brother wanted to babble on about _maths_ when it was almost Christmas, he was clearly mad and shouldn't find the extra work a burden.

His escape had not gone as unnoticed as Edmund hoped. Spencer Elliott was walking his way. Imagining the conversation that Elliott wanted to have, Edmund ducked his head and ran. He was in such haste to arrive home that he ploughed into the man out walking with a little girl. The girl tumbled to the ground with a squeak.

"Scuse me," he muttered to the street, and tried to push past.

"Excuse me?" repeated a deep voice. Amusement tinged the rebuke. "That's all?"

Edmund's mouth dropped open, and his eyes shot up. " _Dad?_ "

Richard Pevensie smiled, but only briefly. He looked down at Lucy who really ought to have gotten up by now, but was still sitting in the dirty slush as if she didn't have any sense at all. Edmund hadn't knocked into her _that_ hard. Trying to hide a roll of his eyes, Edmund shifted his school bag to one shoulder and reached down to pull his younger sister up. "Sorry," he muttered under their father's gaze.

Lucy beamed up at him. "It's all right, Ed, I forgive you."

Edmund scowled. "No need to make a fuss about it." As if there was so much to forgive, but Lucy _would_ make a big deal over nothing, and Father was smiling approvingly at her like she was some kind of saint.

Lucy's smile dimmed, but only momentarily. "We were coming to surprise you," she said, taking their father's hand again. "Where's Peter?"

Father raised his an eyebrow, silently echoing the question. Edmund forced himself not to squirm. "Coming along. He has to talk to _everyone_ first." It was mostly true. Peter _should_ be coming soon, and he _had_ been chatting away when Edmund last saw him. "Your skirt's all over mud," he added.

"Oh!" Lucy put the hand not holding Dad's to the back of her wet skirt. "No wonder I was cold."

Father glanced up at the gray sky. "It's getting colder. I'm sorry to cut our walk short, sweet pea, but we need to get you home and dry. Edmund," but he paused, frowning at whatever he had thought to say. After a moment, he shook his head with a sigh. "Come along," he finally said.

It was always that way, Edmund thought, falling into step behind them. Lucy would do something perfectly ordinary and childish, and Dad and Mum and the older ones would exclaim over it like she'd repainted the Sistine Chapel or some such. Meanwhile, Edmund was at best an afterthought and a nuisance, at worst a criminal, shushed and scolded just for having a thought of his own.

His point was only proven when they reached home, and Lucy was immediately bundled into a warm bath while Mum conscripted him into heating up water to make tea for his little sister. "I haven't been home since summer," he pointed out to no one in particular. "And I've been feeling ill." Aside from Susan (whose school had gotten out a week early due to the Headmistress's fears) telling him to, "Hush, Edmund," no one acknowledged his complaint. "Shows how much they missed me," he muttered to the tea kettle. "Some homecoming." He wasn't likely to get any time to himself tonight, either.

When Lucy appeared in the kitchen, beaming and pink-faced from being scrubbed dry by the heater, and took the teacup from his hands, she only rubbed it in. "Dad was taking me for a walk since he missed my birthday, and I thought we could come and meet you and Peter at the station." She looked sad for a moment. "Only that didn't work out. But still, here we are now! All except for Peter, that is."

Dad had missed Edmund's birthday, as well, but there hadn't been any offers of a special outing for _him_. "Well, you don't need to gloat about it," he said.

Lucy looked more injured at this accusation than when he'd bumped into her earlier. "I wasn't gloating!"

"Edmund, be nice," Mother said, sweeping through the kitchen to the dining room with a platter in her hands and a harried expression on her face. "And bring the bread to the table. Lucy, drink your tea and warm up, sweetheart. Susan, dear, the napkins. Where _can_ Peter be? He knows we can't hold supper past sunset."

Technically, they could and had eaten supper later, with the blackout curtains drawn and secured (uselessly, Edmund thought, as they had yet to hear a single German plane over London), but Mother would not allow such a grim meal to welcome Father home.

"Don't worry, Helen," Father said emerging from his and mother's bedroom. "Edmund and I will go meet him."

"I've been feeling ill-" Edmund protested.

"It will give us a chance to talk and catch up," Father continued over Edmund's objections.

'Talk.' No one ever wanted to 'just talk' with Edmund for any good reason. He set the bread platter on the table, scowling. "I'm tired."

Susan passed him, carrying a basket of napkins and a pile of silverware. "It will be good for you, Ed," she said soothingly. "I know I can't bear being around food when my stomach's upset."

Edmund made a face at his older sister. There was nothing _overtly_ sarcastic in her tone, but he was certain it was there, all the same. "Mind your own-"

He was interrupted or, by the look on Dad's face, _saved_ by a knock at the door. The entire family turned to look at it. The pinched expression on Mother's face deepened. "Richard…"

Peter wouldn't have knocked. _Not_ , Edmund thought firmly, that anything could have happened to him. Nothing ever happened to Peter Pevensie. Adults adored him. Bullies walked the other way when he approached. Even the most sarcastic masters couldn't find a critical thing to say about him. If Peter tripped and fell into a hole, he'd probably discover a lost treasure at the bottom. Edmund would discover an old latrine and come up covered in muck.

Father opened the door to reveal Carlisle Stephens, standing in the doorway with a hand raised to knock a second time and two familiar school trunks crowding the stoop beside him. Edmund edged slowly away from the hall. "Richard, I didn't know you were home," he said in surprise. "Good evening, Helen. I met your eldest trying to pull these two trunks along by himself. I had my truck so I offered to drop them by for him."

Mother's anxiety melted into a relieved version of what Father called her 'smile to launch a thousand ships.' "Thank you, Carlisle, that was very kind of you," she said, as Father and their neighbor carried the two trunks inside between them.

"Peter isn't with you, then?" Father asked with a slight grunt.

"No," said Mr. Stephens. "He sent word that he'll be home soon with-" His eyes lighted on Edmund, who was halfway through the kitchen door, and his brows lowered a bit. "That is, Peter said to tell you he'd be along shortly and not to worry about holding supper. I'll check in on him on my way."

"Are you certain you can't stay?" Mother asked. "Are Herbert and Mary with you? We have plenty of chicken, and I know Edmund would be pleased to have him."

Edmund bit back a protest, but Mr Stephens shook his head regretfully. "That's very kind of _you_ , Helen. I can see where Peter gets it. That's a fine boy you're raising, both of you. But no, Herbert and I have to get home."

He tipped his hat, glanced at Edmund one last time, and was out the door.

###

Edmund blamed that parting frown for his lack of appetite at supper. What had the man meant by it? Had Peter said something? Herbert wouldn't have, Edmund was sure. Fairly sure. He poked at his chicken with his fork, and then flipped it over to the other side.

"Is something wrong, Ed?" Father asked.

Edmund scowled at his plate. "Did we have to have baked chicken again?"

"You should be glad of that," said Father. "The things children not far from here are eating would make you cry. Not to mention that if the war goes on, we'll all have to tighten our belts."

"Is it very terrible, Dad?" Lucy asked.

Susan said, "Is there something we could do for them?"

"I don't see why that means I should have to eat dry chicken every night," Edmund said.

"It's very good," said Susan. "You just haven't put any gravy on it."

"No one asked you," snapped Edmund.

"If you can't show any gratitude for what you have," Father said calmly, "you can go to bed."

Edmund stood up. "I wasn't hungry anyway."

It was all he'd wanted since before he got home, so naturally he wouldn't actually get it. Father followed him to his room only a few minutes later.

"Edmund."

Edmund faced the wall and pretended to sleep.

His father did not seem to be fooled. "This wasn't how I wanted to spend my time home." Edmund shrank further under his blankets. Of course, that would be _his_ fault. "I don't want to…" He heard a sigh and felt a hand on his shoulder, and then Father left.

He couldn't have told Father to just go away, but when Lucy turned up determined to read him her favorite storybook "because it always makes me feel better when I'm ill," Edmund could and did shoo her off.

He was fairly certain he heard Mum in the doorway, but feigning sleep worked for once. Either that, or she had the sense not to say anything to him. He may have genuinely fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the room was dark and his brother's voice was rising in the hall outside their room.

"The little prat! He couldn't have just told me he was heading home! After all the time I spent looking for him-"

"Peter," Mother's voice held quiet censure, and Edmund heard an immediate change in his brother's in response.

"I'm sorry, Mum. I should have checked in. I thought I'd find him. I didn't want to worry you."

"I was very worried until Mr. Stephens brought the trunks. Then I was _slightly_ less worried." Mother sighed, but there was more fondness than exasperation in the sound. "You're a dedicated big brother, Peter, but remember you don't have to do everything."

"Yes, Mum." Edmund had to remind himself not to snort at his brother's dutiful response. Peter Pevensie always tried to do everything, except when he was too busy being fawned over to bother.

Father's voice joined the other two. "I'll have a talk with Edmund in the morning."

"D-" Peter cut himself off, as if he'd thought better of what he was about to say. "I don't suppose there's any supper left?" he asked hopefully.

There was a silence as if Mum was considering. Edmund imagined the restrained purse to her lips that she wore when she was trying not to smile. By the sound of her next words, she'd given up the effort. "I'll see what I can find while you get ready for bed."

Of course, _Peter_ got supper.

"You're an angel, Mum!" Under cover of the blankets, Edmund rolled his eyes at the wall.

Father was just as bad. "That is what I keep telling her."

His parents seemed to be leaving finally, but before Edmund began to breathe slightly more easily, Peter spoke again, his voice suddenly serious and hesitant. "Dad?"

The heavier set of footsteps stilled. "Yes, Peter?"

"When you talk to Ed tomorrow, what are you going to say?"

Attention caught, Edmund listened closely. "I don't think that's any business of yours, young man," Father said sternly.

Edmund smirked at the wall. Even if it was only once in a blue moon, Father was the only one who ever put Peter in his place.

"I didn't mean - He can be a little - trying-" Somehow, Edmund suspected that was not the word Peter had been _going_ to use at first. "And he should have said something before running off on me, but it hasn't been the easiest week."

Edmund's stomach clenched, the smirk disappearing. _Shut up, Peter,_ he thought fiercely.

"How so?" Edmund heard the groan of bedsprings as his father and brother sat.

"I don't know if Mr. Stephens said anything, or if Herbert even told _him_ , but it got out at school somehow, about him going before the Conscientious Objectors Tribunal."

 _Shut_ up, _Peter!_

"And?" Father's frown was almost audible. Edmund pictured the two lines that appeared between his eyes when he was unhappy about something.

"Herbert's had an awful time of it. I tried to stop what I could, but I don't see the younger boys that much. He won't say who did it, but someone - a group probably - cornered him the other day and beat him. They broke his nose and chipped a couple of his teeth." Peter's voice grew heated again. "And the masters claim there's nothing they can do! It was right under the headmaster's window, but he didn't hear a thing, he says. Cowards, going after a kid like that, and everyone lets them get away with it!"

 _Shut up, shut up, shut_ up _, Peter, you self-righteous_ prig!

There was a moment of labored breathing, and then Peter's voice continued more calmly. "You know he and Ed are friends, and-"

"And Herbert isn't the only boy at school whose father hasn't enlisted." Father's words were almost too low to hear.

Peter sounded shocked. "That wasn't what I meant."

There was a soft huff, like laughter, but not like it. "I know it wasn't, son," Father said gently, while Edmund squirmed inwardly. "It's true, there are some people who mistake pride and hatred for courage. Even some adults do it, unfortunately. I'm proud to know my eldest isn't one of them, one who would lash out at the defenseless because he doesn't agree with them or blame a child for his parent's actions."

Edmund couldn't tell Father to shut up, even in his head, but he wished he could. It was Peter's fault. His brother _had_ to know, and it wasn't fair to go at him sideways like that, especially through Dad. It wasn't a crime, anyway. It was their patriotic duty, like Brimlow said. Brimlow's older brother was a sailor on the _HMS Exeter_. What if he were killed? if Father were endangered, were captured and tortured like some reporters had been, because of traitors like Mr. Stephens?

Traitors deserved to be punished.

Besides, Edmund hadn't done anything but hold the other boys' bags and watch for approaching masters, anyway _._ If his empty stomach continued to roil, it was only because he hadn't eaten supper.

Peter was mumbling something no doubt meant to sound modest and self-effacing. For a few seconds, Edmund hated him. "But can't we do anything about it, Dad?"

"I'll see about sending a letter to the school," Father said. "Unfortunately, there are too many who share that way of thinking. I may not agree with Mr. Stephens's stance on justifiable violence, but I respect him. He is a kind, generous man, and he sticks to his principles. That takes the greatest kind of courage. I hope you'll always do the same." He sighed. The bedsprings creaked again, and the next words came from above as if he'd just stood up. "As I hope to do myself."

At his tone, Edmund's uneasy stomach flipped even more. Peter's voice echoed his own concern. "Dad? Is something wrong?"

"Not precisely," Father replied. "Now you need to eat and go to bed. We'll talk more in the morning." His footsteps moved toward the door, and then paused. "Peter, I'm pleased with how you've been looking after the family while I've been away. I'm going to need you to keep up that courage for a while yet."

"Whatever you need me to do, Dad."

Edmund was too worried to be more than fleetingly sarcastic about Peter's earnestness. He worried the entire time Peter was out of the room, and even more when his brother returned from his belated supper. Instead of going straight to sleep as Edmund expected, Peter stood for a long time in the space between the two beds. Edmund considered asking what he thought of their father's last words, but continued to feign sleep until he heard Peter lay down. It was a long time before Edmund slept again himself.

He wished Peter had said something. He wished Dad had stayed. He wished Mr. Stephens wasn't a coward or that Herbert had just kept his head low. He wished he'd eaten supper so that he didn't feel so ill.

Everything was wrong.

 _A/N: I uploaded this again after editing slightly for spelling and historical accuracy. Coming is Chapter Two: Knock, Breathe, Shine._


	2. Knock, Breathe, Shine

**Damascus Road**

 **Chapter Two: Knock, Breathe, Shine**

" _...you_

 _As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend."_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations XIV_

London, December 1939

Edmund glared at his shoelace. It looped and twisted and stuck defiantly like a recalcitrant snake, despite every effort to force it to smooth out and tie properly. He stuck his tongue out at the knot.

"Careful, your face might stick that way," teased Peter's voice.

Looking up, Edmund turned the glare on his brother. "Don't you have anything better to do?" he muttered.

"Not at the moment." said Peter, kneeling down beside him. "Here, I'll give you a hand." He reached for the knot, but Edmund jerked away.

"I don't need your help," he snapped. The last thing he wanted was Peter hanging around, gloating. It wasn't as if he didn't know how to tie his own shoes. They just weren't cooperating right now.

Frustration crossed Peter's face. "Knots like that aren't easy," he said. "I have some practice with the hard ones."

Of _course,_ he did. "I said, I don't need help."

Susan poked her head in the door. "What are you shouting about?"

Edmund groaned loudly. "I wasn't shouting," he said. "Why can't anyone mind his own business?"

"Technically," said Susan, "it would be _her_ business, if you're talking about me."

Bending his head back over his laces, Edmund muttered a phrase he'd once heard Spencer use. _"...Girls."_

The words earned him an elbow from Peter. "Apologize."

"I didn't say anything!" Edmund protested.

Peter wasn't buying it. "I heard what you said."

Edmund scowled. "I was talking to myself." He jerked at the knot again. If they'd just left him alone, there wouldn't be anything to hear, would there?

His brother's voice lowered. "Apologize, or Dad'll hear what you called Susan."

Edmund almost yelped. That was just the sort of sneak thing Peter _would_ do, the traitor. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

Peter looked skeptical, but as he opened his mouth (to issue another order, no doubt), Susan interrupted. "Thank you, Edmund," she said, but there was an expression in her eyes that made Edmund wriggle slightly. "Now, what's wrong? Is it your laces?"

Susan's acceptance meant Peter could not demand another apology on her behalf, but that didn't stop him from frowning meaningfully.

"'M fine," Edmund mumbled under his brother's eye.

She seemed to take this as a 'yes.' "Why don't you just leave your shoes here for now? I'm sure Mum and Dad won't mind you wearing your house slippers to-" She hesitated for an instant too long, exchanging a look with Peter. "-just inside. You can worry about them later."

 _Everyone_ knew about his disgrace, didn't they? Edmund was tempted to reject this solution, but it seemed that nothing else would get his older siblings off of his case. He slammed the shoes down on the floor (not missing Susan's sigh as he did so) and pulled his blue slippers from beneath his bed. He shoved his feet into the slippers and stalked out of the room. Anything if they would let him be.

Edmund stopped when he reached the hall. Untangling his laces had at least delayed the inevitable. Dad had made it clear at breakfast that he wanted to _talk_ when Edmund was dressed. Edmund dragged his slippered feet down the hall to his parents' room and knocked on the door.

"Come in." Dad's voice sounded distracted. It usually did these days, at least when he was home. Edmund might be able to get away with a short interview.

He shuffled into the room and sat on the bed. His parents' bedroom wasn't that much larger than the one Edmund shared with Peter, and it seemed smaller than it was with the master bed filling most of the space and Dad's desk taking up one corner. "I'm here."

Father sat at the desk wearing a preoccupied look to match the tone of his voice, but he turned his chair, lifting it over the edge of the carpet, to focus his attention on Edmund. "We didn't talk much when you got home yesterday," he said.

Edmund shrugged in response to this, poking at the embroidered quilt Grandmother Powell had given Mum and Dad for a wedding present. It smelled of the lavender Mum usually packed it with. She only ever took it out a few times a year. Couldn't Dad just tell him off and get it over with?

"This is a difficult time," Father continued. "This is-" he hesitated. "This may be my last time home for a long while."

He knew all this - how necessary Dad's job was, how hard it was being gone (hard for _him,_ never for the the rest of them), how it meant Edmund needed to be good for Mum and not tease his sisters and _listen to Peter_. Except there was that _something_ in Dad's voice again, the same heaviness that had been there the night before.

"I want all of us to be able to enjoy Christmas together." The unspoken weight remained. Edmund didn't know what it was, didn't _want_ to know. "I don't want to have to punish you."

"Nothing's making you," Edmund muttered at the quilt. Six months ago he never would have dared talk back to Dad, but that nameless echo made him angry.

Father frowned at him. "Edmund," he said sternly. A moment later, however, his voice softened. "I heard what happened at school to Herbert."

That was the last thing Edmund wanted to discuss. He'd rather take his punishment and go. "Peter needs to keep his mouth shut," he said, kicking his heel against the bed frame.

Father sighed. "Peter's just being a big brother. He cares about you _and_ about Herbert."

Edmund didn't reply to this. His stomach had started hurting again.

Father didn't seem to notice. There was a slight smile in his voice as he added, "Your brother has been through many of the same things, you know."

Edmund coughed to keep from laughing in his father's face. Peter had _never_ been forced to deal with the things he had. His brother had never been smaller or younger or weaker. He'd never had to peek around the corner to see who might be coming down the corridor or been criticized just because he wasn't someone else. To hear most people talk, he practically walked on water.

His skepticism must have showed on his face. "I know it's hard to believe," said Father. "I was a younger brother, too."

Edmund had no trouble picturing Aunt Alberta as a bossy older sister, but imagining Dad at his own age was harder. Dad had always been a man: nearly six feet tall, quiet in anger, firm in belief, crafter of penny whistles and stories about far away countries.

"Your mother and I thought we might have the Stephenses over to tea during the holiday." Father's comment ended Edmund's reflections. "They could use our friendship, and it will send a message that we don't hold with that kind of mischief."

It would certainly send a message, Edmund thought, horrified. He could only imagine what Brimlow or Elliott would say. "Do you think they'll want to?" he asked. "Mr. Stephens didn't seem to want to stay last night."

"Everyone could use a friend, Edmund," said his father. "As far as last night goes, I suspect they wanted some time together with family. I don't think they wanted to intrude on ours, either." He raised an eyebrow in a way that made Edmund squirm. "I want you to listen to your brother. It's safer for both of you to stay together, but I'm even more unhappy that you lied to me."

He hadn't lied, not really. He just hadn't told the truth, but Edmund doubted that distinction would mean anything to Father. He shrugged, finding a loose thread in the quilt's embroidery and pulling on it.

After a minute of his silence, Father sighed. "I was hoping for something more than that."

Edmund snapped the thread. "I'm sorry," he said in a mumble.

If anything, Dad looked even more disappointed. It wasn't fair. They'd badger him until he said it, and sigh at him when he did.

"What are you going to do?" Edmund finally asked.

Father looked tired. "No pudding for three days," he said. "And you'll stay in the house. We'll see about Christmas."

They'd _see_?! Edmund bit back a shout. "Yes, sir. Can I go now?"

Dad looked down at his desk, the lines in his forehead deepening. "You may go."

Edmund escaped back to his room. His brother and sister were gone, thankfully. He was surprised Peter hadn't stayed to lord it over him. His shoes were lined up at the end of his bed, knotless. Edmund kicked off his slippers and put them on quickly. No doubt his siblings were gloating somewhere downstairs.

###

Edmund did _try_ to behave over the next few days. It wasn't easy. Preparations for Christmas dinner (however paltry a thing it was looking to be) meant the house was smaller and busier than ever, and Edmund wasn't even allowed to escape by running errands for Mother, the way Peter and Susan and occasionally even _Lucy_ were. Worse still, in addition to the Stephenses's visit, his parents had insisted on inviting the Scrubbs to Christmas dinner. It was a measure of how miserable Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold were, that even Peter had cracked a smile when Edmund hoped aloud that fear of German bombs would keep them far away in Cambridge.

Unfortunately, the Scrubbs turned up at the door on the morning of Christmas Eve with five year old Eustace who was even more of a pest than Lucy, whined twice as much, and would _naturally_ be staying in Edmund and Peter's room. Aunt Alberta, it seemed, had no fear of air raids.

"It's all at sea these days, anyway," she said loudly as Peter and Edmund took her bags inside. "A phoney war, like that American said. There isn't a soldier in France, and well done for it. Germany isn't interested in us as long as we leave them alone, the government's thought better of this nonsense, and it will be over in another month, anyway."

Aunt Alberta, it seemed, was a pacifist, like Mr. Stephens, but a far more outspoken one. Edmund prayed that no one passing heard her remarks. Spencer Elliott lived only a few streets beyond Herbert, and if Aunt Alberta's tirade got back to him, he would carry it to Brimlow once the holidays were over and…

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Alberta," Father said mildly, holding the door open for her.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Richard," Aunt Alberta replied, sweeping into the house. "You're looking _ragged,_ Helen," she remarked to Mother, causing Edmund to scowl and Peter to frown before she turned back to Father. "Everyone knows it. Most of the evacuees are being returned already. I notice you didn't even bother to send yours off."

Mother's smile was fixed. "It's good to see you as well, Alberta," she replied, exchanging a glance with Father.

Father cleared his throat. "Let's get you all settled in before we dive into that kind of discussion, shall we?" he said. "Harold, I have an article I think you'll be interested in."

###

"I don't think they'll want to stay long," Susan said quietly. The four Pevensie children had gathered in the girls' room for a few moments before Christmas dinner. Father had _magnanimously_ lifted Edmund's punishment for Christmas pudding, although what Mother had managed to scrape together hardly looked to be worth the name. "Aunt Alberta doesn't like London. Neither does Uncle Harold."

Edmund scowled. "Why did they have to come in the first place?" he asked.

"Dad wanted to see them," said Peter. He looked at Susan meaningfully, as if the two of them were sharing some secret. "They _are_ family, remember."

"You wouldn't know it the way they talk," said Edmund. " _She_ doesn't like Mother."

Lucy, who didn't have an unkind word to say about _anyone_ said, "How can anyone not like Mother?" which was the closest she'd come to a criticism.

However difficult to believe, it was apparently both possible and a fact. Aunt Alberta reminded Edmund of the school matron at Henson House who had accused him of 'perversity' for writing with his left hand. All through dinner, Christmas Eve, his aunt seemed to delight in offering his mother advice on how to deal with Edmund's 'emotional negativity' and Lucy's 'clinginess.' Privately, Edmund thought Aunt Alberta wasn't too far off in suggesting that Lucy was a bit spoiled, but still, that was _his_ sister. She had no right, and anyway, her bratty Eustace was a hundred times worse. "All things considered, if you're not going to put her in boarding school for another two years, it might not be bad for her to spend some time away. We'd take her - I've been reading some excellent books on modern child rearing - but it really is best for Eustace to be the only child in the home at this age."

Lucy's expression at this idea was so horrified that Edmund had to put his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing outright. He faked a loud sneeze to cover it.

"Disgusting!" Aunt Alberta's nose wrinkled. "You ought to teach your children to use a handkerchief, Helen."

Edmund opened his mouth to reply to this, and then yelped as a foot connected with his ankle. Peter was frowning at him. He kicked back in the same direction.

Mother pursed her lips. "Edmund, wash your hands." Edmund scowled at this treachery, but stood up, scraping his chair across the dining room floor as he did so. "You're very thoughtful, Alberta," she said, turning to her sister-in-law. "But Richard and I want to keep our children close for as long as we can."

On his way to the kitchen, Edmund glowered even more. Keep _Lucy_ close, she meant. They'd had no trouble sending _him_ off to Hendon House. He let the water run over his hands for a few seconds in case Mother got the idea to check that he had, in fact, washed them, and then wiped them dry on his trousers.

"Suit yourselves," Aunt Alberta was saying as he returned to the table. "But if you don't take her in hand soon, she'll turn out as dull as-well." She didn't directly look at Peter and Susan, but she nodded her head sagely. "Take advantage of the opportunity while you can. It won't last much longer."

"We're hoping to avoid that," Father said. His voice held the same stern warning that Edmund often heard directed at _him_. "I hope you're right, and that it does end soon, but I believe it will take a long, determined effort." He paused, glanced at Mother, and then pushed his chair back a bit and placed his napkin on the table next to his plate as if preparing for a toast. "And it will take every able man on the field," he said solemnly. "Helen-" He stopped, looked at Edmund and his siblings and changed his words. "-Mother and I have talked. We believe that there is more we can be doing- _should_ be doing for the war effort. Words are an important tool, but England needs soldiers more than journalists right now. I've been to the recruitment office. I'm going to finish out my assignments for this next week, and I'll be enlisting in January."

Edmund dropped his fork. "What?" he said. "Oh, don't be a baby!" he snapped at Lucy who had started crying.

Peter squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he'd swallowed something difficult. Susan put one hand on Lucy's shaking shoulder. The other held tight to the seat of her chair, knuckles turning white. Neither of them, Edmund noted, looked surprised.

Uncle Harold was startled into actually joining the conversation. "Richard, you can't be serious," he said. "You're walking away from a perfectly good position to waste your time on a charade." Edmund couldn't remember his aunt or uncle ever describing his father's occupation in those terms before. His stomach felt hollow, as if he hadn't just eaten a full helping of Mum's turkey, but he couldn't help a feeling of vindication. Aunt Alberta might as well have tasted a lemon from the look on her face, and Elliot wouldn't be able to say a word about the Pevensies' loyalties after this.

Mother took Father's hand. "We've discussed it," she said. "And prayed about it. It's the right thing to do." Her eyes, however, looked as if her stomach felt similar to Edmund's.

Aunt Alberta found her tongue. "It's ridiculous!" she snapped.

"It's not up for discussion," Father overrode her, voice still calm. "We didn't ask you to London to argue over it, Alberta. I wanted to spend Christmas with my family before I leave."

Dad was always leaving, had even left for the war zone before, interviewing soldiers and the subjected people on the continent, but he'd never left like this, to fight Germans who would be trying to kill him, not capture him or turn him.

"I won't be a party to this," said Aunt Alberta. "If you're going to throw your life away, it's without _my_ sanction. I don't know if we can stay tomorrow."

Father's lips tightened. "That's your choice," he said. "But you'll always be welcome here."

###

In the end, the Scrubbs stayed for Christmas dinner, despite threatening otherwise. Edmund suspected Aunt Alberta didn't wish to prepare her own holiday meal. They'd left immediately the next morning, and the house had been turned over to preparing for Father's departure. Father himself was rarely to be seen. He'd committed, he said, to tying up current responsibilities before leaving for new ones. Despite his words about spending time with the family, those responsibilities did not include a great deal of time at home.

New Year's Eve was as dreary as Christmas had been. The day was wet and grey, as if the entire world inside and outside the house knew that this would be Father's last day at home. Even then, he left before supper to attend some sort of political gala. There was still no sign of air raids, but the blackout curtains remained in place. Edmund was not allowed a torch or a candle in case a gleam shone through the curtains, and no one even attempted to stay up to greet the year nineteen-hundred forty. Despite the lack of celebration, Edmund kept himself awake, listening until the sound of Peter's breathing slowed and deepened into the sure sign of sleep. Then he crept out of the room and down the stairs to the sitting room. Pushing the edge of the dark curtain aside, he looked out.

There was nothing to see. No street lamps, no lit windows, not even another pale face like his own peering back. Half a moon gave Finchley its only light. It had been waning since Christmas.

 _I wanted to spend Christmas with family before I left._

 _This may be my last time home…_

 _The greatest kind of courage…_

 _Is something wrong?_

 _No._

Father was a liar.

"Edmund?"

Startled, Edmund cracked his eyes open. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have. He hadn't heard Father come home. He sat up and braced himself for the scolding he knew would come. Instead, Father set down a bulky package on the end table and sat on the couch next to him. "Trouble sleeping?" he asked.

Edmund shifted away from him. "It's New Year's," he said.

"Yes, it is." Dad's voice was uncomfortably gentle, as if he were reading Edmund's thoughts, and feeling sorry for him. He pulled his watch from his breast pocket and flipped it open. "We're two hours into nineteen-forty."

Nineteen-forty. January first. In the morning, Dad would go to war. Edmund kicked the back of his foot against the sofa. "All that, and I missed it anyway."

Instead of chiding him for sulking, Dad patted his shoulder. "Why don't you come upstairs and sit with Mother and me for a bit?"

Edmund eyed his father skeptically. If this was the prelude to a lecture…

But Dad picked up the package on the table and unwrapped it. "It's not too late to celebrate." On the edge of the wrapping, a white powder glittered like snow in the light of the full moon through the window. Dad tucked the edge of the blackout curtain back into place, darkening the room again, but Edmund's eyes had widened.

"Is that Turkish Delight?" he demanded, forgetting to be sulky.

Amusement colored Father's voice. "The caterer had some left over. I told him how much my boy loved it, and he let me take some home." He stood up. "What do you say? Shall we find Mother and ring in the New Year?"

"Just us?" Edmund asked, hopefully. It sounded too good to be true.

Father laughed a little, but didn't answer. They crossed to the stairs, but before they reached the first floor, Mother met them on the landing, holding Lucy by the hand.

"We were just going make a pot of tea," Mum said. "Bad dreams," she said added gently.

Lucy practically leapt at Dad, hugging his legs. "I dreamed you were already gone," she said.

Dad let go of Edmund's hand to pick her up. "I'm still here," he said kindly. "Edmund and I were just going to have our New Year's celebration. Why don't we all go to the kitchen and have tea _and_ candy?"

Edmund's heart sank a little, but Mother said, "I think that's a wonderful idea." They gathered around the kitchen table with its small blackout lantern in the middle. "Edmund, why don't you fetch the tea tin?"

Lucy climbed into Dad's lap. Edmund eyed his sister's perch enviously, but even if Mum and Dad and a clinging little sister wasn't nearly as good as having both of his parents to himself, she wasn't as unbearable a companion as the older two. He opened a drawer and pulled out the breakfast tea Mum usually brewed. "No, not that one," his mother said when he brought it to her. "The chamomile. It's late and-" She smiled in a way that was almost sad. "-This is a special occasion."

With the appropriate leaves selected and the tea heating, Edmund scooted a chair next to his father's. Mum didn't even scold him for scraping it against the floor. Dad unwrapped the candy again, and passed a piece of Turkish Delight to each of them. Lucy leaned her head back against Dad's chest and looked up imploringly. "Will you tell us a story?"

Father smiled down at her. "What story would you like, sweet pea?"

He was halfway through her choice of the Six Swans, when Peter appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, with Susan just behind him. "Ed's run off aga-" he began before seeing the party gathered around the table. Mouth and hands powdery with sugar, Edmund looked up from Dad's side and smirked at his brother. Peter's irritated frown was worth it, even if it only lasted a moment. "Can we join you?" he asked.

"Come, sit down," said Father. Instead, Peter insisted on pulling out a chair for Mother first, while Susan poured the tea. Then they both sat across the table, cups in hand and reached for their own sweets while Dad finished the story.

"Do you _have_ to go, Dad?" Lucy asked, when he finished.

The candy stuck in Edmund's throat at the words. Peter and Susan exchanged glances. Lucy was eight and could ask that kind of thing. Edmund was nine and knew better.

Father kissed the top of Lucy's head and squeezed her briefly with one arm. Then, to Edmund's surprised, he extended it to include Edmund and held the other arm out to Susan and Peter. Mother reached across the table and took both of his hands.

"Yes, sweet pea," Dad said quietly. "Because of this, right here, I have to go."

 _A/N: Coming: Chapter Three: Some Claim As Debt._


	3. Some Claim As Debt

Chapter Summary: Peter doesn't care for Edmund's friends. Sometimes Edmund doesn't, either, but that's one of the things he likes about them.

 **Damascus Road**

 **Chapter Three: Some Claim As Debt**

" _That Thou remember them, some claim as debt."_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations IX_

England, January 1940

A year ago, Edmund would have scrubbed dishes for a week in exchange for a chance to ride in Mr. Stephens' vegetable truck. Now, squeezed into a corner sheltered from view by a crate of potatoes, he wished they could have gotten to the train station any other way. What had Mother been thinking? She'd _claimed_ to be worried about them getting lost after the incident at the start of the holiday, but that seemed a bit of an overreaction to Edmund. Sending them off in the care of an infamous coward couldn't be any better, but Mother had gratefully accepted Mr. Stephens's offer to take them. Herbert leaned back against a crate of onions, as far from Edmund as possible, casting wary glances at him that Edmund pretended not to notice. Herbert had apparently begged his parents to let him return to school despite his 'accident' before Christmas. In Herbert's shoes, Edmund wouldn't have wanted to show his face, but the boys would have derided him for cowardice if he'd stayed away.

Susan had folded her legs under her primly in a way Edmund was sure must be uncomfortable but which adults tended to praise as ladylike. Meanwhile, Peter perched near the end of the bed of the truck, legs out in front of himself. As soon as the truck stopped at the curb, he jumped down and started to unload his trunk, heedless of who saw him. Edmund glowered to himself. It was as if Peter were _trying_ to make his life harder.

On the heels of the thought, he watched Peter smile encouragingly at Herbert who wore a much more nervous expression. Susan frowned, and then climbed down more carefully.

"All right, son," Mr. Stephens's voice came from the cab. "It's time to go."

He could just stay here, Edmund thought. No one would see him. He could let the train leave without him, never put on that stupid tie again, and forget about school and Germans and-

The truck shifted. "Ed." Peter had climbed back up and scooted over next to him. "Come on, they're waiting for us." His brother frowned at the striped tie crumpled next to him. "You're still not ready? We can't miss the train."

Edmund thought about just refusing to move. Peter must have caught the obstinate look on his face. "I'll pick you up and carry you inside, and how will that look?"

"You wouldn't," said Edmund indignantly.

Peter crossed his arms and simply looked at him.

Edmund stared back, but no stand off with his brother had ever ended in his favor. Besides, Peter was right. There was no way Edmund wanted to draw attention to the fact that he'd arrived at the train station with _Herbert Stephens_. He shoved away from the side of the truck, making the potatoes in the crate next to him rattle and his own back ache from the impact, and picked up his tie. "All right?" he said, with a glare.

Peter just sighed, taking hold of one end of Edmund's trunk. "Come on."

###

"So, Pevensie, I hear your dad finally got up the stomach to go out and fight." Spencer Elliott found him even before Edmund had finished stowing his trunk in the compartment. It was the sort of thing that Elliott would say.

Dad had always been brave, but Spencer would never see it that way. Edmund looked past the older boy for Brimlow or Wilkes, but didn't see them. Brilliant. Elliott wasn't too bad with Brimlow to rein him in, but on his own… Edmund imagined he could still feel bruises from last fall.

"Do you need something, Elliott?" Peter's voice came from across the aisle. Edmund glared at his brother as Peter entered. Where had _he_ been and why did he have to come back right now, when Spencer was here?

Spencer did not have spots or warts, but the look he gave Peter was downright ugly. Edmund felt a shiver of apprehension. Before a confrontation could begin between the older boys, Edmund said, "We were just going to meet up with the other boys."

Elliott smirked at Peter. "I was just congratulating Ed on your dad turning out not to be a coward, after all," he said.

"Dad's going to join the 5th soon," Edmund said loudly. "He's at the top of his training unit." Edmund didn't actually know anything of the sort, but he'd be hanged if he told Elliott anything else.

"It wouldn't surprise me, at least," Peter said with a patronizing smile at Edmund. He _had_ to correct every detail, didn't he? His expression turned more serious. "We're all proud of Father. Not every man would go behind enemy lines with our soldiers and sailors without even a weapon of his own to report on what's happening over there. He's always said that telling the truth requires a special kind of bravery."

Elliott's face flushed a dark red at that remark. "That sounds like the sort of thing a sneak would say," he said in a low voice.

Peter crossed his arms. "The sort of sneak who corners little kids when he's got a mob at his back?" he asked. "Headmaster Corkell may not do anything about it, but-"

Spencer interrupted Peter with a laugh, for which Edmund was almost grateful. Peter's speech was starting to make him uncomfortable. Defending Dad was all well and good, but did his brother have to start moralizing as well? "Always such a good-goody," Elliott said, with a glance down at Peter's hands which had formed fists against the insides of his arms. "Come on, Ed," Spencer said, at last. He might glare and he might laugh, but he wouldn't pick a fight with Peter Pevensie. "The boys are in the back."

Edmund started to follow. He didn't want to stay to hear Peter's lecture about Elliott being a bad influence. The two older boys had been in the same class last year, but some difficulty with Latin had held Spencer back.

Peter frowned in disapproval. "Su will be here as soon as she says hello to the girls," he said pointedly. "Aren't you going to wait for her?"

Edmund shook his head. "I'll be back," he said. He might be. He'd see his sister before they switched trains, anyway. It wasn't Susan's fault that Peter couldn't keep from butting his nose in where it wasn't wanted.

It wasn't as if Peter's interference had silenced Elliott in the least. Spencer continued to mock him all the way to the last car. "I bet your mum wouldn't give him any peace until he left."

"Shut up, Elliott," said Edmund, finally, sliding open the door to the compartment where Thomas Brimlow lounged next to the window, shuffling a deck of cards. Ethan Wilkes watched his hands critically.

"What's going on?" asked the former. Brimlow observed Edmund's red face and Spencer's sneer and nudged Ethan to look up.

"Nothing," said Edmund, sitting down across from them. "What are we playing?"

"Whist, if you've got anything to wager," said Brimlow. "Otherwise, Scabby Queen." With a bank account and a pedigree both miles deep, not to mention a talent for giving orders, Brimlow was the undisputed leader of the boys.

"Scabby Queen," said Wilkes, immediately. "Pevensie never has anything to wager." Ethan sounded very superior when he said this. The Wilkes family didn't have quite the history that the Brimlows did, but Ethan was very fond of boasting of his parents' London townhouse and how many generations of Wilkeses had lived there.

Edmund hated Scabby Queen. It always left his knuckles raw and stinging when he lost, and Spencer seemed to make a point of trying to draw blood. "We can wager dares," he suggested.

"Not many dares we can do on a train," said Elliott.

This was one of the very reasons Edmund had suggested it. Wagering for dares had been Edmund's contribution to their fellowship, and he was proud of how well the others had taken to it, but when Elliott was in such a foul mood as now, the thirteen-year-old tended to be unpleasantly creative. The confines of the train at least limited the damage Spencer could do.

"You'll think of something," said Brimlow sitting back with a smile on his face. "It's a good idea."

Dares started appropriately small early in the game: a shout out the window at a milkman they passed on the road, standing in the aisle singing radio jingles, knocking on the door to another compartment and demanding to search it for German spies. That last proved so entertaining that cards were set aside for the new game. Their investigations disrupted two old ladies, a pair of evacuees returning home, and a soldier on leave before they stumbled upon Susan with a couple of her friends. Edmund's sister did not seem amused.

"Really, Edmund," Susan said with a long-suffering sigh. "Can't you play your game somewhere else?"

"It's not a game," said Edmund haughtily. She _had_ to talk down to him in front of his friends? "This is a serious security matter."

Susan glanced at one of the other girls whose eyes were rather red. "Not _now_ , Edmund."

"Oh, come on, Lady Su," said Elliott with a grin. Edmund frowned. Susan _would_ patronize, but there was something unpleasant about Spencer's nickname for her. "Don't get all high and mighty about it."

Susan didn't respond to the nickname, but her knuckles whitened on the handle of her bag the way they had when Father announced his enlistment. Edmund shifted from one foot to the other. "We'd like you to let us alone, thank you."

Elliot's grin darkened slightly.

"Oh, come on," said Edmund. "They're not going to be any fun, anyway." Susan turned her gaze from Spencer back to him, and he scowled at the reproach in her eyes. "Just don't blame us if you're murdered in your beds by Germans because you didn't let us check."

The red-eyed girl started sobbing, and Susan's expression turned fierce. "Go _away_ , Edmund!"

###

"Guess nobody in your family's too quick to defend the nation, are they?" said Spencer after they'd left and subsequently been shooed back towards their compartment by a porter. "Your sister, your dad…"

"She's just a girl," said Edmund. "It's too serious for her to think about. And my dad's doing more than _you_ are."

"All right now." Brimlow stopped in front of a half open compartment and turned to face the rest of them. "No fighting," he said. "Spencer's one of us." Edmund held back a scowl, but Thomas turned to Elliott next. "Mr. Pevensie's all right. He's fighting now, isn't he? He's a patriot, and so is Ed. Right?" He slapped Edmund on the back in support. "He doesn't put up with traitors. He proved that with Stephens and Harker. Anyone who wants to argue can find another seat at supper tonight."

Edmund threw Elliott a smug look. Spencer's criticism no longer mattered. Elliott might be the oldest, but Brimlow's word was decisive. Sitting elsewhere for meals would be tantamount to resigning one's place in Brimlow's circle, and none of them were foolish enough to become a voluntary outcast.

Elliott shrugged as if it didn't concern him. "I was just giving him a hard time is all. He knows that." His pat on the back was rather harder than Brimlow's, but he swallowed any further jibes. "Let's get back to cards," he said, continuing down the aisle.

That satisfied Brimlow. "Right then," said Thomas smiling. He slapped Spencer's shoulder as well, walking with him. Wilkes followed, eying Spencer's place at Brimlow's side with a frown.

Edmund started to follow, but as he did so, a hand from the open compartment grabbed his shoulder and held him there. It was Peter's, and from the utter disgust on his face, his brother had heard every bit of the conversation.

Peter opened his mouth, but Edmund was faster. "What do you think you're doing?" he snapped. "Let me sit with my friends."

"Your _friends_ ," Peter began hotly.

"You already had to set Spencer off once today!" Edmund accused. "He only lit into Dad because you were hassling him. If you didn't interfere-"

"Dad would be ashamed of you," said Peter, lowering his voice. "No wonder Herbert wouldn't say who attacked him. I knew you could be a little brat, but-"

Red-faced, Edmund pushed his hand away. "It's none of your business. You think you're so much better than everyone else, but you're not."

Peter's face set. "Mum and Dad told me to look after you. That makes it my business. If they knew-"

Edmund's pulse sped up, but he scoffed aloud. "You're going to tell them? After all your talk about upsetting Mum? You don't even know where to write to Dad."

" _I'm_ not the one upsetting her," Peter said. "And that's up to the headmaster."

Spencer was right. Peter _was_ a sneak. "The headmaster doesn't care," said Edmund sulkily. "You said it yourself."

It was true - Edmund could see the frustrated acknowledgment in Peter's face - but it didn't help his case. There was a moment of angry breathing. Finally, Peter said, "He'll have to, if you can tell him who did it."

"Not likely!" _Peter_ might be a sneak, but that didn't make Edmund one.

"I _will_ write Mother, if I have to," said Peter. "It'll break her heart, but I will."

He sounded so superior. "I'm not snitching on anyone else," Edmund said. "And I didn't even do anything but keep watch."

Peter seemed unaffected by his argument. "Standing by is the same as taking part on the wrong side." It was something Dad had said before the war started.

"Shut up!" Edmund turned to follow the way the others had gone. "Tell her what you want!"

###

"Pevensie." Edmund was battling his tie in preparation for supper when Wilkes interrupted him. "Fawcett says the Head wants to see you." Wilkes's eyes were hooded.

Even though Edmund had spent the rest of both train rides wondering if Peter would really follow through on his threat to tattle on him, Edmund's first thought was, _Dad_. He felt a chill like cold water down his back. The feeling persisted until he reached the Head's office and saw a solemn-faced Peter standing outside the door.

"Is it Dad?" Edmund asked his brother in a whisper. Peter's shook his head, but a pair of lines, reminiscent of their father when he was displeased, appeared between his eyes. Peter reached for Edmund's tie and began straightening it.

Edmund grumbled, "Stop it," but he was unreasonably relieved for a few seconds before he realized why else the headmaster would have called for them. He opened his mouth to snap at his brother, but before he could say anything to Peter, he heard the words "Come in." from beyond the office door.

Peter pushed it open, and they entered.

Headmaster Corkell sat behind a desk of polished wood, his left hand holding a hand-written letter open on its surface. "Welcome, boys," said Corkell. The headmaster wore a genial smile that did not match the sharpness in his eyes. Edmund forced one of his own. "How are you enjoying the new term?"

 _Hate it._ Without bothering to look at Edmund, Peter answered for both of them. "We miss our father, sir, but we know he'd want us to work hard at our studies."

It was the sort of answer that adults liked, and Corkell's smile widened, although his eyes did not change. "Well, said," he replied. "And you like being at Hendon House?"

 _No,_ thought Edmund, but Peter did not consult him this time, either. "Yes, sir."

For all his criticisms of Edmund's friends, Peter probably meant it, too. He usually did.

"I was a little concerned about that," said Headmaster Corkell. "I have a letter from your father expressing doubts about discipline here. He seems to think we don't investigate offenses thoroughly."

Edmund looked at Peter. Apparently, his brother _hadn't_ gone to the headmaster yet, although, Edmund still held him responsible for this situation. Peter was the one who had spoken to Dad about Herbert. The headmaster reclaimed his attention. "I understand one of your friends was in a bit of a scuffle last term."

Peter looked as if he wanted to object to the word. "Herbert-" he began. If Edmund did not act quickly, he was going to make the incident sound far worse than it had been.

"Herbert had to defend his dad," he said hastily. "It's not his fault that - you know - but it's family." Edmund could feel Peter's gaze on him, but he continued confidingly. "And the other boys get angry. It wasn't serious."

Headmaster Corkell's voice turned jovial. "Can't fault patriotism. It sounds like everyone just got a little carried away."

Peter's face reddened. "Sir, I don't think-"

To Edmund's delight the headmaster interrupted. "I'm glad we were able to clear that up. Just a misunderstanding."

Lowering his voice, Peter said, "Sir, my brother-"

"Was very helpful," completed Cornell. "Now run along, both of you. I wouldn't want you boys to miss supper."

"Yes, sir," said Edmund, and made good his escape. His face felt as flushed as Peter's, his heart racing in a kind of terrified elation. It was one thing, talking around Brimlow or Wilkes, but he'd never managed the same feat with an adult before. The headmaster had wanted to be satisfied. Corkell had not wanted to pursue the subject, and Edmund had given him an excuse not to. Carried away with the success, Edmund threw his brother a triumphant grin.

Peter's return expression was withering. "I suppose you're proud of yourself." It was the same tone he'd used when speaking with Spencer earlier.

Edmund's grin faded. "Oh, shut up!" he said.

"You're still going to apologize to Herbert," said Peter. "And the other boy Brimlow was talking about. Harker?"

"Harker's not at school anymore," Edmund muttered. "His parents pulled him before the hols."

Peter's face darkened further. "Herbert, at least."

"Fine!" said Edmund, stalking away. His victory did not seem so grand anymore, but it _was_ a victory. He could afford, he told himself, to be magnanimous.

###

 _A/N: Coming: Chapter Four: To Endless Night._


	4. Like Adamant Draw

A/N: This is the surprise chapter! Literally, it was a surprise to me. This story has expanded beyond the length, I'd expected, and the six-parter is now a seven-parter. I will note that the last chapter has been written, bar polishing, so I don't think this will expand any further than it has.

 **Damascus Road**

 **Chapter Four: Like Adamant Draw**

" _thou like adamant draw mine iron heart"_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations I_

England, Spring 1940

Peter was annoyingly underfoot or overhead in the succeeding weeks, turning up to scold wherever Edmund happened to be. Even after the promised apology had been delivered (Herbert had looked at him like a scared rabbit when he first approached until the words were out, and then he'd looked sarcastically over Edmund's shoulder at the hovering Peter before walking away), Peter seemed to have made it his mission to catch Edmund in some misdeed. He hadn't shown half as much interest in his younger brother the previous fall.

Edmund began to think that Spencer, for all his faults, had more than a few points about Peter. He was a sneak _and_ a goody goody. The worst of it was that Peter seemed to have recruited the rest of the family into his crusade. There had been a letter from Susan in early March in which she'd said nothing outright, but implied much.

 _Dear Edmund,_

 _Si vales valeo. I'm studying Latin which is quite a lovely language, but rather difficult. I prefer French. For Latin, we were each required to stand up and recite a memorized phrase, and that was mine. It means, 'If you are well, then I am well,' and the Romans used it to begin their letters. So, are you well? How are your studies? Have you made any new friends? Peter says he often sees you with the older boys which doesn't surprise me as you're so clever. I'm sure you could be such a help to the boys in your own form, teaching them what comes naturally to you. It will make Mother so pleased to hear you are doing well. You know how she worries, especially now with Father fighting. I'm sure she'd love a letter from you._

 _The new Head seems less nervous than the old one, so hopefully we'll complete the full term. If she doesn't send us home early this time, I'll see you on the train for Easter hols, but try to write before then._

 _Your sister,_

 _Susan_

Edmund scowled at the letter. Susan didn't badger him quite so much as Peter, but only because she tried to be tricky about it. Calling him clever was a cute way of trying to get him to abandon his friends. He could just imagine what Peter had told her about Brimlow and the others. Peter just couldn't stand the fact that anyone didn't worship the ground he walked on. There were actually people who liked Edmund more than they did him, and it must really gall his older brother, if Peter was getting Susan involved in trying to sabotage Edmund's friendships. It was sad, honestly. Just pathetic.

###

Mr. Stephens came to pick them up at the station. Edmund ducked his head and tried to hide his face as the trunks were loaded onto the truck, but Lucy (come along for the ride), made circumspection difficult.

"I'm so glad Easter's come!" she said, throwing her arms around Peter without a glance at Edmund or Susan. "I've missed you so much!"

Edmund rolled his eyes. "It's not Easter yet," he muttered. "Not until Sunday."

Susan frowned at him, but Lucy and Peter didn't seem to hear. Peter smiled and tugged on her braids. "We missed you too," he said.

"Yeah," said Edmund more loudly this time. "A silly little girl is exactly what we needed at school."

Lucy's face crumpled. She looked at him reproachfully. Susan reached out to hug her.

Peter glared at him. "Bad form, Ed."

Mr. Stephens frowned, as well. "There's no call for that, son."

Edmund glared at the man. "I'm not your son! _My_ dad isn't a traitor."

Susan gasped. "Edmund!" Lucy looked up from Susan's chest wide-eyed.

" _Bad form,"_ said Peter again. He turned to the grocer, apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir. It's been a long train ride. He doesn't know what he's saying."

He knew _exactly_ what he was saying. Someone had to. "I'm going to walk," announced Edmund.

"No, you're not," said Peter.

"Mum doesn't want us going off alone," Susan said.

"We can wait a few minutes," said Mr. Stephens, as if Edmund hadn't just called him a traitor to his face. _Too much of a coward even to deny it,_ thought Edmund. "But I know your mother and Herbert's are getting a nice supper ready."

"I'm going to walk," Edmund repeated. "I'm not getting in that truck." He started walking down the street to prove it.

"Ed," Peter called after him angrily, but he picked up his pace. "Edmund!" After a few moments, Edmund heard a noise of frustration, an indistinguishable murmur, and the sound of feet pelting after him.

Peter had longer legs. He caught up quickly. Edmund didn't stop walking. "I'm not going ba-" he began.

His older brother interrupted. "You're not going anywhere alone. It's my job to look after you." His expression was fierce. "Even when you do act like a spiteful, little wretch."

Edmund kicked a pebble in his brother's direction. "So you're just going to leave the girls alone, then?"

"Mr. Stephens will take them home," said Peter. "He's a good friend and a neighbor. He was very kind to come get us. When Mum hears how rude you were, she'll be mortified."

" _She'll_ be mortified. I don't see how she can be so friendly to him when Dad's off fighting for the country, and he just hides here." Edmund stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked as quickly as he could. Peter had no right to fuss at him about anything. He only hoped none of the other boys had witnessed the scene. Peter Pevensie making nice with a coward and a traitor. He, Edmund, had refused to have anything to do with it.

Come to think of it, maybe it _wouldn't_ be so bad if anyone had seen them. Let people see what their precious hero was _really_ like.

"...Hopefully, he'll still be there when we get home, and you can tell him you're sorry," Peter continued.

Edmund stopped short. Not likely. Herbert was one thing. He didn't necessarily deserve to have a worthless father, but there was no way Edmund would apologize to Carlisle Stephens. "He can't tell me what to do. He isn't Dad, and neither are you."

"He's our elder. Dad treated everyone with respect," said Peter. "If you cared that much about him or anything he said, you wouldn't be so awful to everyone."

"I'm not the one who doesn't care about Dad!" _Treated,_ Peter had said, as if he'd already decided Dad wasn't coming back. He had the nerve to suggest _Edmund_ didn't care about their father? Edmund didn't speak to him for the rest of the walk. When Mother greeted him at the door with a stern order to go to his room (the girls must have tattled; he and Dad were the only patriots in the family it seemed), he went gladly.

###

Edmund was bored. The vicar at St. Mary's-at-Finchley seemed to believe that a holiday gave him the right to preach an extra-long sermon and either was completely oblivious to the fact that most sensible people would rather be home celebrating Easter than listening to him drone on and on, or else didn't believe in frivolous things like actually having fun. Mum had promised a trip to Battersea Park (not nearly as much of a treat as it had once been, but worth it to see the barrage balloons all lined up to protect the skies above London), but at this rate, there wouldn't be time.

Edmund had the one advantage of being next to a column. If the sermon became too tiresome, he could lean against the column and hopefully no one would notice if he closed his eyes. Peter, over on the other side of Mother next to Lucy, was too far away to hassle him, and Susan was busy trying to copy Mother's fixed attention on the service.

He counted the pipes behind the organ for the third time, and then his eyes wandered over to the stained glass windows. There was a man with some sort of bag, looking at the ground. Edmund made up a story about him. He was searching for buried treasure, and when he found it, he would buy a castle far away from boring church services and school. He'd have adventures and be able to eat all the best things, and... _How_ long was the vicar going to speak?

Peter leaned over to whisper something to Lucy. Edmund eased his hand into his pocket and slid out his brother's folding knife (it wasn't as if Peter had been using it) and flicked it open. The wood of the bench was harder than he expected, but Edmund managed to work the knife into it and shift it back and forth. "Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest…" droned the vicar, "for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself…"

 _Boring!_ Edmund smirked slightly and began carving the word into the bench. Better anyone else who sat here be warned.

###

It was fortunate that he'd managed to entertain himself because the trip to the park was cancelled due to fog. "I knew it," Edmund muttered on the walk home. "We never get to have any fun."

"Oh, don't complain on Easter, Edmund!" said Susan. "Anyway, we probably wouldn't be able to see anything in this weather, anyway."

"And there's Easter dinner," said Mother. "There's plenty to do before we eat."

Under his breath, Edmund said, "Not much of one." No ham, no sugar, and no butter to put on the few biscuits Mum had managed to get. The balloons and the parade at Battersea Park had been the only things to make it seem like a holiday. At least there would be wouldn't be present no unwelcome guests for _this_ dinner. With Father gone, Aunt Alberta wasn't speaking to the rest of the Pevensies, and while Mother had invited the Stephenses, they'd declined.

His older brother had put the latter down to Edmund's comments at the train station. Mother had scolded Peter, but not very hard. Not nearly the way she'd lectured Edmund about being neighborly.

"She cried all night," Peter had made a point of informing him.

Edmund had told him to shut up. He hoped his words _had_ made it clear to Mr. Stephens that he wasn't wanted. Even if no one else appreciated it.

###

Cautiously, Edmund cracked open the door to his parents' room. He wasn't concerned about running into his mother. She was currently downstairs trying to draft everyone in the family into cleaning the house. The door had a tendency to creak; however, and if Peter or Susan overheard, they'd be certain to ask what he was sneaking off for. Just before the holiday, Brimlow had lent Edmund his old copy of _In the Teeth of the Evidence_ , and Edmund was still only halfway through. With the rest distracted, this was the perfect time to finish. Dad had left behind an old electric torch, and there was a space in the back of his and Mum's closet that was ideal for hiding out with a book.

The closet door was already cracked open which was a bad sign. Mother was scrupulous about closing doors. Edmund had glimpsed Susan dusting the curtains and Peter moving chairs for Mother to dust behind, which meant there was only one possibility.

"Edmund?" said Lucy's voice.

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded, pushing the door open wider.

"I know I should be out helping," said Lucy. She had Mother's fur stole wrapped around her shoulders and Father's fedora perched on her knees with her hands clutching the brim. "I was just thinking about Dad."

Edmund scoffed. "Dad's not in a smelly old closet," he said. "He's fighting in France, not hiding like a little girl."

A large damp circle appeared on the crown of the hat, but Lucy's expression was fierce through the tears when she looked up. "When did you get to be so mean all the time?" she asked.

Edmund crossed his arms, tucking the torch under his arm and making sure that the paperback stayed well hidden in his back pocket. "I'm just looking out for you. You can't keep being such a baby. Don't you know that there's a war on?"

Lucy wrinkled her nose at him. Red-faced and tear-stained she didn't look anything like the little angel the neighbors called her. She stood up and pushed past him, shedding the borrowed finery she'd wrapped herself in. "Peter's a much nicer brother than you," she said, the most withering retort an eight-year-old could make.

Everyone liked Peter better. "Go on," said Edmund, shoving her lightly towards the door of the room.

When she was gone, he sighed with relief, switched on the torch and sat down with his book.

He only made it through one story before Peter appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, to loom over him. "Edmund."

Stupid little girls. "I didn't do anything," said Edmund immediately. "Lucy's lying whatever she says."

Peter looked at the clothes on the floor, and then back at Edmund, his jaw tightening. "Lucy didn't say anything at all," he said, although his voice promised that more _would_ be said later. "We have a visitor downstairs."

###

True to Peter's word, the vicar of St. Mary's sat puffing in the parlor as if he'd run all the way from the church. Didn't he have anything else to do with his time?

"Pardon me," said the vicar. "Mrs. Pevensie, I meant to have more of a word with you after the service. How are the five of you doing? Have you had any word from your husband recently?"

"Unfortunately, not since he was sent to the front," said Mother, her face falling a little. Edmund scowled at the vicar when he saw this, and Peter elbowed him. "We're hoping for a letter soon, however."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said the vicar looking almost as disappointed. Was that sort of acting something that vicars studied in school, Edmund wondered. "Is there anything I can do to help in the meantime? Have you been able to have any time to yourself? Visit with the other ladies of the vicarage?"

"Here and there," said Mother. "We all do our part. It's been a bit busy."

"And the children?" asked the vicar as if the four of them were not sitting right there. He had the air of hinting around something. Surely, he had an Easter meal waiting for him? "How are they doing without their father?"

"We do our part as well, sir," said Peter, earnestly.

Edmund coughed into his hand at this blatant brown-nosing, but the vicar smiled approvingly. "I'm glad to hear it."

The man cleared his throat, and turned back to Mother. "Mrs. Pevensie, I'm afraid there is another matter I must discuss with you," he said, delicately. Edmund braced warily. That tone from an adult nearly always meant trouble.

Mother's shoulders straightened. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

The vicar inclined his head in something that was neither a nod nor a shake, as if he were reluctant to commit to an answer. "The church custodian noticed something while tidying up after the service. It appears someone has been vandalising the pews. Some inappropriate words were carved into the row where your family sits."

Typically, but entirely unfairly, everyone looked at Edmund. He scowled indignantly. "I didn't do it! I don't even have a knife!"

"I do," said Peter grimly. "I thought I'd lost it. I didn't figure you'd actually _steal_ it."

Mother shook her head sadly. _"Edmund."_

"I didn't!" said Edmund, but it didn't make any difference. They were all against him.

###

Edmund's disgrace lasted for the entirety of the holiday. He spent the remaining days sanding profanities (most of which he had _not_ been responsible for, not that anyone believed him) off the church pews, under the eye of the church custodian while the others took their long delayed outing to the park. Peter made a point of reclaiming his pocket knife and then the pumice stone Edmund attempted to use for the work. The last resulted in an additional scolding from Susan to whom Grandmother Powell had given the stone as a birthday present the previous year.

"Sorry," Edmund grumbled. The stone hadn't been as useful as he'd expected, anyway. It was far softer than the sandpaper the custodian had provided, and contact with the wooden pews quickly wore it down to a nub. "It's not as if you're grown up enough to even use it."

"It was a present, Edmund," Susan said. "The last one Grandmother gave me."

"Didn't I say I was sorry?"

###

Mother escorted them to the station herself this time, accompanied by the grocer who made a point of generously excusing Edmund's insults. The former, at least, would have been all right, if it hadn't be clear that she was doing so only because she had no other choice, and anyway, the damage had already been done. Fifteen minutes into the train ride, Spencer Elliott and Ethan Wilkes cornered him outside the lavatory and demanded to know what his family had been doing accepting rides from the likes of the Stephenses.

"It wasn't _my_ idea," Edmund said. He looked around for assistance. "Where's Brimlow?"

"Out for the rest of term," said Wilkes. "Milton didn't make it." Milton was the sailor brother. He'd been injured in a sea battle before Christmas, but the last Edmund heard he'd been recovering. It was awful in every way, and not just for Brimlow.

"Your poor old man," said Elliott. "I wonder how he feels about his wife being friendly with someone who doesn't even have the guts to go and fight. Or does he even know?"

Edmund bristled. "Don't talk about my dad." Since when had Spencer had anything good to say about Mr. Pevensie? He started to walk past.

Elliott stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and sneered. "I notice you didn't say anything about your mum. Must be awful knowing she's a-"

" _Shut up!_ " Why couldn't Brimlow be here? It wasn't that Edmund didn't feel bad for Thomas. He did. But he'd only ever heard of Milton, not met him, and Brimlow's absence from school meant there was no one to keep Spencer in check. He should be here.

Or even stupid Peter. But Edmund's brother only cared when he thought Edmund was in the wrong. He wasn't really any different from Spencer. He just chose a different way to lord things over a fellow.

"Just admit it," said Spencer. His fingers dug hard into Edmund's arm. "You'll feel better. Say, 'My mum's a coward lover and a spy.'"

Edmund's reply would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap if he were home, and a lecture from one of the masters if they were at school, but he felt the situation deserved it. He was going to end up just like Herbert. "Who made _you_ king?"

"Language," said Wilkes, as if he never used the same words. He looked more bored than invested in Spencer's fun, however. "Let him go, Elliott."

Spencer narrowed his eyes at the wealthier boy. "I'm waiting on an answer." He didn't let go of Edmund's shoulder, but his grip loosened slightly, and Edmund's heart beat faster. Ethan had never liked Edmund as much as Brimlow did, but he was too proud of his family's money to let a nobody from Finchley like Spencer call all the shots, either. If the two were going to start arguing over who took Brimlow's place, Edmund was happy to let them. The older boys watched each other..Edmund could tell when the balance shifted.

Wilkes nodded at the lavatory door. "You can go," he said.

Edmund shook off Spencer's hand. Spencer crossed his arms, but did not stop him. He had his hand on the door when Wilkes stepped in front of it. "When you say the password."

###

"But I don't know any password," said Appleby. He was a scrawny year four with a reputation for an overactive bladder which, from the way he was bouncing from foot to foot, was probably deserved. "Please, I'm late for-"

"Boys who wet the bed shouldn't drink so much at mealtime," said Edmund.

It was really only good advice for the boy to remember, and all he had to do was show he'd learned the lesson if he wanted to pass. Instead, he stuttered and shifted and turned red. "I-"

"What's going on?" Appleby's eyes widened at Peter's voice, but he kept them fixed on Edmund nervously. Edmund scowled over the smaller boy's head at his brother. "Edmund?"

What was Peter doing down this hall anyway? "You're supposed to be with the Second Form," said Edmund. Perfect Peter Pevensie out of his dorm at this time in the evening was unheard of.

Appleby was still dancing about nervously. Peter gave him the smile he reserved for his admirers. "If you'll excuse my brother and I." Grim soberness replaced the smile as he turned back to Edmund. "Ed."

Edmund scowled. He turned the glare on Appleby, but followed Peter. He could hear the smaller boy darting for the lavatory as they walked away. "What is it?"

"There was a special assembly for all the boys living in London," said Peter. "You missed it."

"No, I didn't," said Edmund, trying to think what he had been doing not to have heard the call. He'd been avoiding Wilkes and Elliott (Spencer was utterly out of control in Brimlow's absence, and Edmund was looking forward to the end of term more than ever before), but he still should have known. Appleby should have said something. Missing an assembly had greater consequences than a lecture from his older brother. Edmund would have to have a word with him later. He didn't intend to be the only boy to catch it. "How would you know anyway?"

Peter's forehead creased the same way Father's did when he was frustrated. "I looked for you," he said. "The Germans have started bombing London. We're going to be evacuated."

###

 _A/N: Coming: Chapter Five: To Endless Night._


	5. To Endless Night

A/N: Here begins the delicate process of telling the story while neither simply copying and pasting C.S. Lewis's own magnificent words nor going too far afield. Lewis gives us quite a bit of Edmund's thoughts during this time, and I'm hoping to echo and expand on those without leaving readers bored with rehashing or wondering where the original story went. The final three chapters take place during _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_.

 **Damascus Road**

 **Chapter Five: To Endless Night**

" _But black sin hath betray'd to endless night_

 _My world's both parts..."_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations V_

Coombe Halt, England, June 1940

Edmund's first impression of Professor Digory Kirke was that of a whiskered old lunatic.

" _Eccentric!"_ Susan corrected disapprovingly. "He's odd, but rather sweet."

"He's batty," said Edmund. "But I guess he isn't awful."

"He's one of Father's oldest friends," said Peter. "And he's been kind enough to take us in - all of us - without splitting us up. We could have ended up with a stranger. We should be grateful to him."

"I wouldn't mind being split up," Edmund muttered. For another adult trying to take their parents' place, the professor really wasn't that bad, but not having Peter hounding him constantly sounded like paradise. "I wouldn't have to listen to lecturing all the time."

"Let's not fight," said Susan. "It won't help anything. There's still more of the house to explore, and then why don't we write to Mother and tell her all we've seen? I don't think she's ever been to the country, and you know she'll want to hear from us that we arrived safely."

 _Why?_ thought Edmund. _She didn't want us around._ He knew what Susan would say to that, however, so aloud, he said, "More work."

"It's a very good idea," said Peter. "And there's no call to snap at Su. We can ask the Professor for paper and-"

"It's all right! I'm all right! I've come back!" Lucy, smelling of mothballs, burst through the door of the room they'd just left and nearly knocked Edmund over.

"Watch it!" he said. "What are you going on about?"

Lucy looked bewildered. "Weren't you wondering where I was?"

Peter smiled patronizingly. "Were you hiding? Poor Lucy, hiding and nobody noticed. You'll have to wait a bit longer than that, if you want us to miss you."

This time the bewilderment verged on hurt. "But I've been gone for hours. There was a wood, and it was snowing, and I had tea with a faun and he played his flute-" She faltered there, trying to think up more nonsense, no doubt, before resuming. "-And he helped me find my way home."

It was a good story for a first try, Edmund had to admit. It would have been a better one, if she'd actually stayed hidden long enough to make it realistic, but little girls couldn't be expected to have the patience for a proper lie. Lucy still managed to get the older ones going enough to check out her supposed magical wardrobe. If it had been Edmund, Peter would have told him to stop fibbing with looking twice, but of course, _Lucy_ was special.

Except that now Lucy was in almost as much trouble as Edmund usually was. Not quite, perhaps, because Peter still played favorites, but it was a treat to watch him frown and sigh and whisper to Susan about someone else for a change.

The most entertaining thing about Lucy's attempt to lie was that she didn't know when to give it up. It was obvious that she'd just been blubbing among the fur coats and come up with the story about mythical fauns serving sardines in order to hide the tears. Spoiled as she was, she seemed to think that if she held out long enough, they would have to believe her. Edmund couldn't decide if it was more amusing or pathetic.

"Anyone find any new countries in the cupboards today?" he asked over supper the next evening.

Lucy looked at him wounded, but Peter put down his fork and gave Edmund a glare. "That's enough, Edmund."

"Oh come on, it was just a joke," said Edmund.

Susan rubbed Lucy's arm comfortingly and whispered something Edmund couldn't hear. He scowled. No one would have been so nice to him, if he were the one making up fairy tales. Whatever Susan said, it didn't seem to have the desired effect, as Lucy put her own fork aside and asked to be excused.

###

It was a relief when the rain stopped and Peter allowed them outdoors to explore like he'd promised the first night. There were _actual_ woods here, not made up ones, and hills that were almost like cliffs to climb. It would have been better if Lucy hadn't been such a wet blanket, but Edmund was determined that a sulky little sister wouldn't keep him from enjoying himself. It wasn't as if she were the only one who missed Father and Mother, after all, and _Edmund_ didn't go making up silly stories to pretend otherwise.

Lucy couldn't even play a simple game without making it about her made up country. Edmund caught her sneaking glances at the stairs that led to the old spare room every time they passed, and when she proposed a game of hide and seek, he knew it was nothing but an excuse. Sure enough, almost as soon as Susan began counting, she headed for the spare room.

Edmund scoffed to himself. As if that wasn't the most obvious hiding place now that she'd made such a fuss about it! She'd even left the wardrobe door open a bit, he noticed when he entered the room. Stupid! He pulled it open further and stepped inside, listening for any rustle of movement at the back. There was no sound. Lucy was keeping impressively still for an eight year old.

 _We'll see about that._ Edmund pulled the wardrobe door shut behind him, removing even the smallest crack of light. "Hope you're not afraid of the dark!" he hissed, but not _too_ loudly. Susan would be out seeking them soon. "It's not Su come to find you. It's me. You couldn't be more obvious, could you?"

Aside from Edmund's own shoes on the boards of the wardrobe and the rustle of coats, there was still no noise. He crouched down and felt around on the floor for shoe or a hand, but instead of finding Lucy, his hand touched wet … _snow?_

 _It's a trick,_ he thought immediately. _She cooked it up with Peter and Susan, I'll bet, to pay me back for teasing her. She's hiding in the back, and they're outside laughing._ But it soon became obvious that Lucy was not in the wardrobe, and neither was Edmund. The wet stuff was definitely snow, and as Edmund stood up (no point in getting his trousers any more wet than they were), he found himself surrounded by trees.

For a moment, Edmund was even more annoyed to discover that Lucy had been telling the truth. "She'll be impossible after this," he muttered to himself. After several minutes of wandering in the snow, however, he realized that being alone in this strange place was not entirely pleasant.

"Lucy!" he called. "Lucy!"

She must have heard - she hadn't been that far ahead of him - but Lucy did not respond.

" _Lucy!"_ Edmund huffed and then called again. "I'm sorry, all right? I believe you now. I'm here too. Just call it pax, all right?"

Still no answer. Sulking, of course. Just like a girl not to accept an apology. He should just go back to the wardrobe and the Professor's house.

But turning around, Edmund realized that he had no idea where the wardrobe was. He walked in the direction from which he thought he had come, but instead of turning into coats, the trees opened out to a clearing. The clearing spread in either direction, almost like a snow-covered road, but if the path beneath the snow was surfaced or dirt, he couldn't tell. He was debating turning back once more or following the path in one direction or the other when the sound of sleigh bells caused him to turn. He stumbled backwards out of the way of a team of _actual reindeer_ (like the caribou from Norway, not the delicate white-tailed creatures who occasionally grazed on the Professor's grounds), decked out in red trappings with golden bells and drawing a large, grandly appointed sledge.

Edmund opened his mouth in awe as it approached, but the sledge paled in comparison to its occupant. She had all the grandeur and importance that Ethan Wilkes only dreamed of, and even before she ordered her driver (a fat dwarf, likewise dressed in red and gold and thick white fur) to halt in front of him, it was clear that she was much, much taller than any woman - or any _man_ , for that matter - whom Edmund had ever met. She was also beautiful, though not quite in the way a person was beautiful. This was more the way a castle or a mountain or (except for red lips and long, black hair, she was pale enough to resemble one) a sculpture made of ice at one of the fine parties Dad used to report on.

It took the lips thinning and the eyes narrowing for Edmund to realize that she'd spoken to him. What _was_ he?

" _You really ought to say 'who'?"_ Edmund imagined his older sister's response, but the woman - even without the golden crown on her head - did not look like someone whose grammar one corrected. Anyway, her fierce, cold gaze made him uncomfortable. "I'm - I'm - my name's Edmund."

He should have remembered the crown. She had a golden scepter - or a wand? - in her hand as well. "Is that how you address a Queen?" she demanded.

Briefly, for reasons he couldn't even begin to place, Edmund thought of Spencer Elliott and Winslow Appleby. "I beg your pardon, your Majesty, I didn't know."

She laughed at that, in a way that was both incredulous and humorless. "Not know the Queen of Narnia? Ha!" The dwarf driver leered unpleasantly, and the reindeer stamped and blew clouds of hot breath into the frosty air. "You shall know us better hereafter. But I repeat - what are you?"

A student, on holiday, a boy… none of those seemed to be correct. There were masters like this, at school, who delighted in quizzing one for an answer that hadn't been taught yet in the lesson while promising detentions for any incorrect response. The Queen's progressively more irritated questions continued until she demanded, "Answer me once and for all, or I shall lose my patience. Are you human?"

Of _course_ he was human! Edmund did not need to be told that such a response would certainly not go over well. "Yes, your Majesty."

"And how, pray, did you come to enter my dominions?" she asked haughtily.

Edmund sputtered something (with multiple 'your Majesty's') about the wardrobe door, and hoped his inability to explain the how any more than that would not anger her further.

The Queen murmured something to herself, a dark expression on her face. Blame Lucy and her stupid fairy tale country! Of course, she'd meet a friendly stranger who gave her toast and sardines and played music, while Edmund met a terrifying giantess.

Just as Edmund thought this, the Queen rose to her full height, showing just how tall she truly was, and raised her wand. Edmund felt small and miserable and angry, like a mouse cornered by Mrs. Macready's cat and unable to run away. She was going to grab him or pounce or do something terrible with that wand-

And then her face changed, the red lips softening and the flashing eyes turning sympathetic. Instead of pointing the wand at Edmund, she opened her arms, and said kindly, "My poor child, how cold you look! Come and sit with me here on the sledge, and I will put my mantle around you, and we will talk."

This was not all that appealing a prospect to Edmund, but it was better than her pointing the wand at him again. He had a feeling, from the Queen's smiles and the dwarf's leers, that horrible things could be done with that wand. At any rate, it _was_ cold. Edmund had been standing in the wet snow for what seemed like hours, and the Queen's fur mantle did look warm.

Edmund sighed with relief when she tucked the mantle around him, and did not immediately order the dwarf to drive away into the distance. At her offer of a hot drink, he imagined Mum's chamomile tea or warm milk or even chocolate, but whatever the rich sweet concoction that fell from the Queen's magic bottle might be, it was better than anything Edmund had drunk before. Perhaps, he began to think, she wasn't so bad after all.

All it needed was something sweet to eat along with it. Biscuits or scones or… "It is dull, Son of Adam, to drink without eating," the Queen said, as if she'd heard his thought. "What would you like best to eat?"

Edmund thought of a dimly lit kitchen and six people gathered around a table. It wasn't a contest. "Turkish Delight, please, your Majesty."

Finally, she seemed pleased about something. Edmund was pleased as well, the magic thrilled him to see, and the candy it produced was the best he'd ever tasted. He barely paid attention to her questions or his own answers for the deliciousness of it. There was Lucy and her Faun and bossy Peter and nagging Susan, yes, yes. Why she cared, he couldn't imagine. Until the box of candy ran out (it hadn't been that big a box, after all), he did not pay much mind to it all, and then only to hope she might offer him more.

Which she did, after a fashion. "I want a nice boy whom I could bring up as a Prince and who would be King of Narnia when I am gone. While he was Prince he would wear a gold crown and eat Turkish Delight all day long; and you are much the cleverest and handsome young man I've ever met. I think I would like to make you the Prince - some day, when you bring the others to visit me."

Edmund wasn't a fool. He knew about catches. Enough time spent with Thomas Brimlow and Spencer Elliott would have taught him that nothing nice ever came without a catch. Still, he was annoyed that the Queen would not take him to her home right away. Why should she be so insistent on meeting his brother and sisters (what if she decided she liked them more than him)? They'd only ruin things, as always.

Anyway, how could he bring the others if he didn't know where to take them? Or even how to get back home?

Unfortunately, the Queen had an answer to that. A little further on was a lamppost, lit even in the middle of this winter day. Edmund hadn't seen a lit lamppost since before the war began. The Queen pointed it out, drawing an imaginary line between it and two hills away in the distance. "But remember - you must bring the others with you. I might have to be very angry if you came alone."

"I'll do my best," said Edmund. His voice was a little sulky and he'd forgotten to call her by her title (but if she meant to adopt him as her own prince, he wouldn't need to would he? He'd always known he was meant for something more important that a dingy house in Finchley where everyone was always down on him and no one ever wanted him around), but he'd _try_ to bring the others. He already had a faint sense, nearly drowned out by his stomach's aching that the Queen meant what she said about being angry. If he really couldn't convince her that it wasn't worthwhile (Peter a duke, really?), introducing her to his siblings was a small price to pay in exchange for all the Turkish Delight he could eat and his own crown and magical kingdom to boot.

"And, by the way, you needn't tell them about me. It would be fun to keep it a secret between us two." . "Just bring them along to the two hills - a clever boy like you will easily think of some excuse for doing that-"

Edmund smiled, his chest puffing up, even through his disappointment. He _was_ clever, after all. Not like Lucy, getting taken in by some mangy Faun. It was about time someone recognized it.

He couldn't help one last request for a piece of Turkish Delight before the Queen drove away, but she only laughed. "Next time! Don't forget. Come soon."

He was still anxiously hoping she might change her mind and return when Lucy turned up at long last. "Oh, Edmund! So you got in too! Isn't it wonderful, and now-"

Edmund cut her off before she could begin the 'I told you so's.' "All right," he snapped. He felt uncomfortably warm, even in the snow, and excited and irritable at the same time, and he was quite sure it was Lucy's fault. "I see you were right, and it is a magic wardrobe, after all. I'll say I'm sorry, if you like. But where on earth have you been all this time? I've been looking for you everywhere." For a while, he had, at least.

Lucy ignored his obvious bad mood and chattered on about her Faun Tumnus (what kind of a name was that, anyway?). Edmund ignored most of her babbling until she said, "and the White Witch has done nothing to him for letting me go, so he thinks she can't have found out and perhaps everything is going to be all right after all."

It didn't take a professor to take 'White Witch' and 'pale giantess, dressed in white fur who can produce magic food out of a bottle' and make two and two add up to four. Edmund didn't even need Lucy's description to know that the witch who did such terrible things (who Lucy's friend _claimed_ had done terrible things) was the same as the beautiful queen who'd promised to make him a prince. But really, one couldn't rely on rumors like that. Simple people were always jealous of superior ones. Like Peter, trying to separate Edmund from the only friends who recognized his value.

Although, Edmund had to concede, there was a huge difference between Brimlow's gang and the White Queen. She'd never choose one of rest of _them_ for her prince. _She_ knew what things were about.

And Lucy was just a little girl.

###

Unfortunately, Edmund thought, as he followed his little sister back through the wardrobe and around the old house as she hunted down their older siblings, Peter and Susan were not nearly so discerning as the Queen. They would believe Lucy and her stupid Faun, and Edmund would have no chance of convincing them to visit the Queen's house. The Queen had been right. Lucy had been listening to lies - she'd believe _anything_ and Peter and Susan _always_ listened to Lucy.

Except, Edmund remembered, they hadn't believed a word of Lucy's story about Narnia or the wardrobe. It wasn't until face to face with his older brother with his sisters looking on in excitement (Lucy) and concern (Susan) that Edmund realized the delightful truth. It was just like Headmaster Cornell back at Hendon House. If he told Peter what his brother already believed, then Peter would believe _him_ , not Lucy.

"Oh, yes, Lucy and I have been playing - just pretending that all her story about a country in the wardrobe is true. Just for fun, of course. There's nothing there really."

It worked and it didn't. Lucy, of course, ran off blubbering, but instead of recognizing what a baby she was being, Peter blamed _Edmund_. "You've been perfectly beastly to Lu ever since she started this nonsense about the wardrobe, and now you go playing games with her about it and setting her off again. I believe you did it simply out of spite."

Which wasn't fair at all, especially when Peter himself admitted it was nonsense. Not, Edmund admitted, that Narnia was nonsense, but Lucy's fancies about witches were. "I thought-" But he couldn't say anything about the Queen to Peter. That was obvious.

"You didn't think anything at all." Peter had gotten going and he was apparently full of things to say. "It's just spite. You've always liked being beastly to anyone smaller than yourself; we've seen that at school before now."

Edmund glared at him. _He_ wasn't the one who went swanning around expecting everyone to fawn over him.

"Do stop it!" Susan pretended to play peacemaker, but it was clear with whom she sided. "It won't make things any better having a row between you two. Let's go and find Lucy."

Of course, everyone was worried about _Lucy_.

It was all just typical.

###

Peter stayed angry for the rest of the evening and into the weekend, mostly due to the way Lucy moped around and refused to join in on even the least controversial games. Edmund rather thought she deserved to be miserable, considering she'd started the whole nonsense, but he couldn't quite bring himself to poke at her too much. There was something about the hurt way she looked at him that always stopped him.

She was doing it now, picking at her food as if she'd never seen a Sunday dinner before. There was still rationing here in the country, but the cook kept chickens and so they got eggs more often than they had in Finchley. That didn't supply the lack of sugar, of course. Edmund could only eat so much of it himself, but Lucy didn't have to be so provoking about it.

"Here, Lu." Susan leaned over and whispered (a little _too_ brightly, Edmund thought), "Try the parsnips. You like those, and you can pretend the peas are sweets - lemon drops!"

Edmund snorted at this and pushed a wrinkled pea around his plate. It looked nothing like a lemon drop. Susan's nostrils flared, but otherwise she pretended not to have heard him. It was all rubbish, and anyway, imagining the boiled vegetables were Turkish Delight only made him think of the Queen's instructions to "Come soon!" His stomach ached.

He wondered if he dared try the wardrobe again on his own. The Queen wouldn't _really_ be angry if he arrived at her door without the others, would she? Edmund felt a shiver down his spine thinking of her flashing eyes and blamed Lucy's description of an evil witch for getting in his head. They were just stories from that stupid faun (the Faun who had, Edmund had gathered, apparently admitted to trying to kidnap her). How even Lucy could be so stupid as to believe anything he said was beyond Edmund. Clearly, this Tumnus was just trying to shift blame onto the Queen because he was afraid of getting in trouble for his own crimes. What had Mother and Father told them about talking to strangers?

At Edmund's snort, the Professor looked his way. "An excellent idea, Susan," the old man said. "There are connections between everything in the world if you look at them the right way. The soil that nourishes the ground, the air that surrounds it. Who's to say one can't extrapolate a bit of steamed pudding from the turnips?" Susan blushed slightly, although she looked as though she didn't know what to make of his compliment. "You never know what you might discover by looking at things a little differently." At that comment, Peter and Susan exchanged looks. Edmund eyed them suspiciously until the Professor addressed him. "Have you tried it, Edmund?"

Edmund shrugged and squirmed without being able to say why. He'd thought the old man was funny at first (if more than a little odd), but lately - at joint meals such as this or when Edmund encountered him in the halls - he kept catching strange little looks. It was as if the sight of Edmund reminded the man of something, and it was a something he did not altogether like. "Don't see what difference it makes," he muttered.

Most likely, Peter had been telling stories about him, Edmund thought. No one ever appreciated him here, anymore than they had in Finchley. Not like _she_ had. Edmund wished he could go back, but Peter had gotten on his high horse and banned anyone from going near the wardrobe room or from even talking about Narnia. As if he had any right bossing them around at all.

###

"Hey, Ed." It was another of Peter's schemes to keep an eye on him, no doubt, when Edmund's brother dragged him out of the library and down to what the children had dubbed 'the Long Room.'

"What is it?" grumbled Edmund, following until Peter stopped in front of the suit of armor that stood in the midst of a bunch of old paintings.

"I think we could wear it," said Peter. "We could be the Musketeers or King Arthur's knights."

Edmund rolled his eyes, but eyed the suit of armor speculatively. "We'd have to take it apart first. It's bolted in place, isn't it?" he asked.

"No, it's not," said Peter. "Just hooked to the stand. Come on, it'll be fun. Like old times. And you need to get out more."

It was the sort of thing Susan fretted about. She'd been the one to put Peter up to this, Edmund imagined. His brother rarely tried to be so nice of his own accord. Then again, Peter's usual band of hangers on were not here in Coombe Halt, and Lucy was too busy sulking to worship him. The suit of armor was too big to fit either of them, but it could be an interesting challenge. Edmund supposed he could humor his older brother this once. It wasn't as if _he_ had any better choice for company, either. "Where do we start?"

And anyway, he needed to work out some way to get the older ones to Narnia.

"Back here," said Peter, pointing to a buckle behind the suit's shoulder.

Naturally, the girls had to ruin it. Susan rushed in breathlessly with Lucy at her heels. "Boys, look out! Here comes the Macready."

Amusing the Professor might be, but his housekeeper was rather terrifying, especially with a band of tourists following her. "Sharp's the word," said Peter.

Everywhere they tried to run, however, the Macready seemed to be there first. If anyone was a witch, Edmund thought, it was her. He had reason to be grateful to her, however, because the others were just as anxious to avoid her. Anxious enough that with no other option to turn but the wardrobe room, Susan led the way, and high and mighty Peter was the one to hustle them all inside the wardrobe itself.

It felt - different from before. The warm darkness seemed less friendly. A sharp smell of mothballs pervaded the space, stinging Edmund's eyes and nose. Suddenly, he did not want to go further in.

But at that moment, Peter said, "There's something sticking into my back."

Susan added, "And isn't it cold?"

This was followed by Peter discovering the wet ground.

"Let's get out," Edmund said urgently. "They've gone." But it was too late. The darkness grew lighter, revealing trees and snow and the chilled faces of his siblings. He'd forgotten how cold it was in Narnia.

A moment later, Edmund forgot about the strange unease as Susan began handing out coats, and their older brother proposed exploring the wood. Seeing the other three wrapped in their too-large coats, Edmund was reminded of the Queen in her robe of white fur. Peter and Susan and even Lucy looked almost regal and very Narnian bundled from head to toe like that, and Edmund felt a twinge. What if when the Queen saw them, she changed her mind?

He shook off the thought. Lucy already had her head full of that nasty faun's stories, and no doubt Peter and Susan would be the same, if Edmund didn't find a way to convince them quickly. The Queen would never put her chosen prince aside for anyone so easily mislead. With that comforting thought, Edmund looked around for something familiar. "I say," he said aloud, too preoccupied to remember subterfuge. "Oughtn't we to be bearing a bit more to the left?" They all looked at him. "That is, if we are aiming for the lamp-post?" He trailed off at the others' stares.

Peter whistled, the sound only highlighting the silence of the sleeping forest. "So you really were here that time Lu said she'd met you in here - and you made out she was telling lies."

Lucy herself was wide-eyed, and Edmund was certain there was a smug vindication in her face. Even Susan, who occasionally intervened, did not say a word.

Peter shook his head. "Well, of all the poisonous, little beasts-" He shrugged then, as if dismissing Edmund as not worth his while, and then began walking again.

The girls followed him, and Edmund trailed behind, scowling. _Stuck-up, self-satisfied prigs!_ They'd be sorry when he was their Prince.

Peter offered Lucy the lead in what Edmund was certain was an intentional swipe his at him, and predictably, she insisted on looking up her Mr. Tumnus. Edmund had his doubts about Lucy's ability to find anything in the snowy woods, but she eventually led them to a cave in a valley. What they found there rather made the trip seem wasted. If anyone had lived in the cave, it was abandoned now. Someone had apparently broken down the door and gone about trailing in snow and breaking everything they could reach.

Edmund heard breaking glass under his foot and stepped back from a torn up picture in a broken frame. His stomach flipped a little. "This is a pretty good wash-out," he said. "Not much good coming here."

That was when Peter found the note and led them back outside to read it. Edmund was glad to leave the ghastly cave behind. Aloud, Peter read,

" _The former occupant of these premises, the Faun Tumnus, is under arrest and awaiting his trial on a charge of High Treason against her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, Empress of the Lone Islands, etc., also of comforting her said Majesty's enemies, harbouring spies and fraternizing with humans._

 _signed MAUGRIM, Captain of the Secret Police,_

 _LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!_ "

Edmund's stomach flipped again. It was understandable. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and they'd walked for a long time (and everyone knew that long walks through deep snow were twice as tiring as any other kind). And anyway, even if the Queen _had_ sent her secret police here because of her conversation with Edmund, the Faun had probably deserved it, telling Lucy all those lies about her. He was a traitor. Traitors deserved to be punished.

While Edmund was thinking these things, the others were having an argument. Susan was in favor of going home, while Lucy was adamant about rescuing Tumnus.

Edmund scoffed at this ridiculous idea. "A lot _we_ could do when we haven't even got anything to eat!" Although, he supposed it would be one way to get them to the Queen's house without having to fight about it.

Peter glared at him. "Shut up - you!"

Then again, maybe fighting Peter wouldn't be so bad.

###

They should have listened to him, thought Edmund. He'd warned Peter about following mysterious birds and beasts, but of course, _Peter Pevensie_ knew better. Now they were stuck in this cramped, leaky dam listening to a pair of overgrown hats go on and on. Supper wasn't too bad, Edmund had to admit. Fish always tasted twice as good when it was freshly caught, and the marmalade roll had been sweet and sticky, but neither really satisfied him. Considering they were made by a talking _beaver_ , of all things, one couldn't really expect much.

He shouldn't have been surprised to realize that animals could talk here. Lucy might have mentioned it in her babbling earlier, but one could only be expected to pay so much attention to that. Edmund wondered if the reindeer who pulled the Queen's sledge had been able to talk, and if they ever did, what they would say. Nothing like the rubbish these rodents were saying, Edmund was sure.

"You've no chance of getting into that House against her will and ever coming out alive," the female said fretfully.

When it came down to it, Edmund conceded, _that_ was probably true. The Queen was powerful and she was magic, and her enemies _ought_ to be afraid of her. Fighting against her was just foolish. She'd been kind to him, and the only reason these Beavers could have for hating her so much was jealousy. Maybe she did turn criminals to stone; that wasn't so different from locking them up so they couldn't hurt anyone else, was it? Edmund pictured Spencer Elliott as a statue, a look of surprise on his face and had to cover a grin. Maybe she would teach him some day.

It was a bit entertaining to hear Peter's heroic posturing cut short by the he-Beaver - "It's no good Son of Adam, no good _your_ trying, of all people." - but then they'd all gone off praising some mysterious King who they hoped would do the fighting for them. Aslan. Something about the name gave Edmund the most unpleasant feeling - like the moment of panic, he'd had in the wardrobe just before coming - angry and uneasy. Edmund squirmed on the hard stool. Some king who apparently rarely even bothered to visit the country he claimed. He was probably too scared to show his face.

"She won't turn him to stone too?" said Edmund. The Beaver only laughed in his face and recited some doggerel about their precious king ending the winter, and then went on to extol the virtues of a giant lion who if he really existed probably _ate_ beavers. _I bet the beast won't be laughing when he's breakfast._

As usual, however, no one listened to Edmund. They'd been ignoring him all evening. Peter and Lucy were all caught up in the beasts' excitement, and even Susan (who was slightly more sensible than the others) seemed ready to march up to this Stone Table (down the river, Edmund noted) and into the jaws of the monstrous lion. He'd done all he could. There would be no persuading his siblings to travel in the opposite direction now. Edmund had seen the two hills rising above the trees somewhere upriver. He would have to go on his own and simply tell the Queen how he'd tried. Surely, she'd understand?

Edmund edged off his seat and towards the door as carefully and quietly as possible. He needn't have bothered. No one even glanced at him as he cracked open the door to the dam. They were all leaning in around the he-Beaver as it began another rhyme. _"When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone…"_

 _Typical,"_ Edmund thought to himself and closed the door behind him.

###

It was snowing outside of the dam, and Edmund realized that he'd forgotten his coat. The others would certainly notice if he went back for it, so he'd have to keep going. The grey clouds and the approaching night meant that there was hardly any light to see ahead of him. He climbed the dam and crossed the river, sliding and tripping all the way. He was wet and sore, not to mention freezing cold, within a few minutes. Edmund thought resentfully of his brother and sisters all warm and comfortable back in the dam. He could have been settled at the White Queen's house now by a roaring fire eating Turkish Delight if they hadn't been so stubborn. After tripping for what must have been the hundredth time, he made a resolution. _Roads_. Narnia definitely needed a few decent ones.

He hugged his shoulders to hold in as much warmth as he could, and tried to picture the house the Queen had described. Whole rooms of Turkish Delight, she'd said. _Rooms_ of it, and he wouldn't share a mouthful with Peter when he finally got his siblings there. It was all Peter's fault that Edmund was out here in the ice and snow, after all. He might have let the girls have a taste if they hadn't sided so meanly with their brother at the lamppost and been so keen to believe everything those nasty beavers said (No wonder beavers were extinct back in England. They probably had all sorts of diseases like most wild animals). Edmund added a law against interfering rodents to his list of things to do when he was king of Narnia someday.

When he was king of Narnia! He couldn't wait to show them. Edmund imagined all of his siblings, even Peter ( _especially_ Peter), having to listen to him and do what _he_ said. No more ignoring or scolding or nagging. If they didn't show proper respect, they'd be punished. Disrespecting royalty was probably treason, and Edmund could bet a place like Narnia had really good old fashioned punishments like stocks and boiling oil and the like. The image of Peter being pelted with rotten fruit by cheering crowds quite cheered him up, and he found himself at the walls of the Queen's house (it was a castle, really, with a high stone wall all around it and turrets standing at intervals around it) in no time at all after that.

It took some walking around the castle to find the entrance. The huge gates stood open, but when Edmund started step through, he saw, right in front of him, a huge lion.

It was all those creatures' fault, Edmund thought after, putting superstitious thoughts in his mind about their horrible lion. He couldn't breathe or step forward or back for a long time before he realized it was just a statue of a lion. _Probably the same one_ , he thought, exultantly, when his fear left him. It was only too bad they others weren't here to see it. "She's caught him already and turned him into stone. So _that's_ the end of all their fine ideas about him. Pooh. Who's afraid of Aslan?"

And just to show how much he _wasn't_ afraid, Edmund dug in his pockets for an old piece of pencil and drew a mustache and spectacles on the lion's face. So there. That showed him.

Edmund's stomach rumbled. The Beavers' fish had been a long time ago, and it really hadn't been much a supper anyway. He turned away from the stone lion and wandered among the statues in the courtyard looking for the entrance. If he were less cold and hungry, he would have wondered about the stories behind some of them, a massive giant, a cowering dwarf, a rearing centaur.

When he did find the front door, up a flight of stairs, he almost mistook the giant wolf guarding it for another statue, but the creature leapt to its feet, bared its teeth and growled. "Who's there? Who's there? Stand still, stranger, and tell me who you are." The heat of its breath was the first warmth Edmund had felt in hours, and he would rather have done without it. What did the Queen need with such a horrible gatekeeper?

Edmund stammered out an explanation of his meeting with the Queen in the wood and how very close to the castle he had brought his brother and sisters (not exactly _brought_ , perhaps, but close enough, and the wolf didn't need to know all that).

The Wolf did not seem impressed at first, but it carried the message inside the house, and when it returned it had entirely changed its tune. "Come in! Come in! Fortunate favorite of the Queen." Whatever it muttered after that, Edmund was more than happy to obey and get inside the castle and away from it.

The inside of the castle was just as full of statues as the courtyard, and one, a Faun with a miserably sad expression on its face, reminded Edmund uncomfortably of Lucy's Tumnus. He couldn't worry about that, however - even if it _was_ the same Faun, he'd deserved what he'd gotten, hadn't he? - because at the end of the great hall sat the Queen.

She was a little impatient with him, at first, but then she was royalty. They were entitled, Edmund told himself. He was practically bursting with excitement as he explained how close he'd brought his siblings. "They're in the little house on top of the dam just up the river - with Mr. and Mrs. Beaver."

 _Then,_ the Queen smiled. If she hadn't been a Queen, that smile would have made Edmund uncomfortable, but once again, royalty was different from other people. "Is this all your news?"

He could practically taste the Turkish Delight. "No, your Majesty," he said. "Someone else has come to Narnia."

#

 _A/N: Coming: Chapter Six: Break, Blow, Burn._


	6. Break, Blow, Burn

A/N: Like the last, this chapter takes place during _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_. None of the characters or settings are mine, and I am immensely grateful for the privilege of being allowed to write in C.S. Lewis's sandbox. Most of the dialogue of this chapter comes directly from Lewis's work. Any flaws are my own. Thank you to everyone who has followed this story so far. Chapter Seven will be along very soon.

 **Damascus Road**

 **Chapter Six: Break, Blow, Burn**

"… _bend_

 _Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new."_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations XIV_

Central Narnia, NT 1000

This wasn't what he'd planned on. After Edmund had told the Queen about the gathering at the Beavers' house and the meeting planned for the Stone Table, he'd expected her to reward him. Even if she did have that posturing lion to teach a lesson, she'd _promised_ Edmund Turkish Delight and a golden crown. He was supposed to be a prince. Instead, she hardly looked at him at all. She just clapped her hands and started giving orders to her driver. When Edmund dared to remind her of her promise, she shouted, "Silence!" so terrifyingly that he shrank back, his mouth open in surprise. A moment later, she relented. "And yet it will not do to have the brat fainting on the way."

The food the Queen ordered brought in, however, wasn't Turkish Delight, despite the mocking pronouncement of her servant, but only stale bread and water. The dwarf's bow as he set the miserable meal before Edmund only added insult to injury. "Take it away," Edmund said. He was a prince, wasn't he? "I don't want dry bread."

Prince or not, the Queen's glare was enough to frighten him into an attempt to eat the offering. What had happened to her sweet words and promises? She'd called him clever before, not 'brat' or 'creature,' and smiled at him. Now her smiles were hard and cold, and her words -

"You may be glad enough of it before you taste bread again."

To think, he'd once complained about Mother's baked chicken.

Edmund choked down about half of the bread, washing it down with the water, before the Queen's driver returned with the news that the reindeer were harnessed and the sledge was set to leave. "Come," the Queen ordered, and Edmund gratefully left the remainder of the meal behind on the iron plate, even if he chafed at her imperious tone.

He was less grateful when he realized that he was expected to sit up in the front of the sledge with the blowing snow in his face. It was better than hiking through the woods without any covering at all had been, but on his trek to the Queen's castle, he'd had a warm welcome and his favorite sweets to which to look forward. The stale bread sat unpleasantly in his stomach. Now it seemed as though that would all be a long time coming.

 _If ever,_ whispered a treacherous voice.

The huge Wolf was still keeping watch by the entrance. When they were settled into the sledge, the Queen called, "Maugrim!"

The great beast sprang from its guard position in the shadows and ran to their side. "Your Majesty?" It asked eagerly. Its tongue lolled from its mouth like a dog's, but Edmund (who rather liked dogs) couldn't find anything friendly about it. He straightened up, pretending not to feel the hot breath on his cheek or imagine the sharp teeth.

"Take with you the swiftest of your wolves," ordered the Queen, "and go at once to the house of the Beavers and kill whatever you find there."

Edmund stared at the front of the sledge, as she continued to outline her plans, instructing the Wolf as to what it should do if the house on the dam was empty (It would be, of course. They'd been in such a fever to meet their precious lion and probably hadn't even bothered to look for Edmund when they noticed he was gone.). He wet his lips which was a mistake in the icy cold, and continued staring straight ahead as Maugrim summoned a second wolf with a chilling howl and two long lean shadows sped away through the iron gates. He tried to tell himself that he was surprised at the Queen's order (she'd only ever said she wanted to meet Peter and the girls, not _kill_ them), but he remembered her towering anger that first day in the snow, and the laughter that had always contained something not quite nice, and felt ill.

As soon as the wolves had left, the dwarf in the driver's seat snapped his whip in the air, and the reindeer began to run with a will. The wind stung Edmund's nose and cheeks, and the blowing snow clung to his eyelashes and covered the front of his shirt.

 _Of course,_ the others would be gone (but could they outrun the wolves?). It was very cold out, and the Queen did not even bother to spread her mantle over him as she had before, although he curled as close as he dared for warmth. Edmund shivered.

And he'd believed she would make him a king! So much for promises. He'd thought Lucy foolish for listening to her faun, but hadn't he been a fool himself?

After hours and hours of wind and snow, the backs of the reindeer and the Queen sitting tall and silent as a statue beside him, Edmund decided it was all just a terrible dream. Any minute now, he'd wake up in bed at the Professor's house - or better yet in Finchley - and Peter would be snoring in the bed next to him and none of this would have happened. Edmund would even be glad for Peter's long-winded posturing if it meant being _there_ and not _here_.

It was a very long night.

###

Dream-like as it was, Edmund did not exactly sleep that night. He was still awake, though feeling very tired and dull-witted and miserable sometime long after sunrise when the Queen called for the driver to halt the sledge. A delicious scent cut through his daze, and Edmund thought hopefully of breakfast. It had been such a long time since he'd eaten a real meal, as far back as supper at the house on the Beavers' dam (and he hadn't properly enjoyed that, although he thought longingly of it now). Surely, even the Queen needed to stop to eat sometimes, didn't she?

Queen Jadis did not seem at all inclined for a pleasant breakfast, however. She was gazing with incredulous fury at a party of animals and other creatures, including a satyr and a dwarf who looked much friendlier and happier than any of those Edmund had met in the Queen's employ. They were all gathered around a long table under a tree. The table was decked out in holly and ivy and the satyrs and dwarf had sprigs of the same pinned to their scarves and hat. There was an elderly fox with greying fur seated right next to a whole family of squirrels, and he did not seem the least bit inclined to make a snack of them, although with plum pudding and what appeared to be a full Christmas dinner spread on the table, perhaps that was understandable.

Edmund opened his mouth to ask if they might join in, but the Queen's expression stopped him.

It stopped the party-goers, as well. A couple of them were so frozen with fear that they forgot to lower their forks from their mouths, and a Fox with greying fur stopped with its glass lifted in the beginnings of a toast.

"What is the meaning of this?" There was silence. "Speak, vermin!" said the Queen. "Or do you want my dwarf to find you a tongue with his whip? What is the meaning of this gluttony, this waste, this self-indulgence? Where did you get all these things?"

Edmund held his breath; his stomach felt hollow. The old Fox licked its lips. "Please, your Majesty," he said with dignity. "We were given them. And if I might make so bold as to drink to your Majesty's very good health-"

"Who gave them to you?"

There were questions, Edmund knew, that had no good answer. Spencer Elliott was fond of them, but he was no match for the Queen.

"F-F-F-Father Christmas."

"What?" The Queen jumped from the sledge, raging at the little party. "He has not been here! He cannot have been here! How dare you - but no. Say you have been lying and you shall even now be forgiven."

" _And she has made a magic so that it is always winter in Narnia - always winter, but it never gets to Christmas."_ Remembering Lucy's words, Edmund's stomach sank lower.

Some members of the party might have been prepared to deny it on seeing the Queen's fury, but the tiniest of the squirrels was too foolish and young to be afraid. Edmund was reminded once again of Lucy. "He has - he has - he has!" it declared.

" _I don't care what you think, and I don't care what you say…. I know I found a country in the wardrobe and I met a Faun there - and I wish I'd stayed there!"_

Edmund didn't even mean to do it. He scrambled across the sledge toward the Queen just as she raised her wand. "Oh, don't, don't, please don't!" These poor creatures were not like Tumnus or the Beavers who had defied her or disobeyed her. All they wanted was a Christmas dinner.

He was too late. The Queen brought down her wand and in place of the happy gathering was a garden of Grey statues gathered around a stone pudding. He stared at them. The largest squirrel held a fork to its mouth, and the fox had not lowered its glass. Edmund wondered if their paws would get tired, if they knew what had happened to them, if they would stay that way forever and ever, awake and frozen, like markers of their own graves.

He no longer wanted breakfast.

The Queen - the Witch - strode back to the sledge and struck him hard across the face with the back of her hand. "That will teach you to ask favor for spies and traitors," she snarled, stepping back inside.

Edmund tumbled back into the bottom of the sledge, almost stunned. The Witch had all the strength of a giantess, and the blow hurt more than any Spencer Elliott had ever delivered, but what struck him dumb was the unspoken echo. _Traitors deserve to be punished._

###

He tried not to think about it as the sledge started off again, but the emptiness of his belly and the throbbing of his face made it difficult to think about anything else. Did they have any friends or family? Any fox kits that called the old one grandfather or fellow satyrs who would miss their companions? Would someone come and dust the snow off of them when it began to fall again or place a shade over the statues when the sun became too hot.

Or not the latter, Edmund supposed. There was no summer in Narnia, was there? Just low clouds and ice and… fog? He hadn't noticed it before, but it _was_ getting warmer. All the clouds of the previous night seemed to have come to earth in a dense fog, and the sledge jerked and scraped at a slower and slower pace. The reindeer strained and pulled, and the dwarf shouted and cracked his whip over and over, but their pace didn't improve, and finally the sledge stuck firmly in mud and slush that had been deep snow only hours before.

Somewhere out of sight, the icy streams must have melted as well, because Edmund could hear the gurgling and rushing of water, and he began to feel hope for _something_ for the first time in what seemed like ages.

The thawing landscape seemed to make the Queen even angrier than the Fox's talk of Father Christmas. She snapped impatiently at Edmund to get out and help dislodge the sledge from the muck (It might have gone faster, if she'd deigned to assist, but Edmund knew better that to suggest such a thing. He had no desire to become a statue himself). Together, Edmund and the dwarf and the poor abused reindeer (they couldn't possibly be talking reindeer, Edmund decided, not and stay quiet under such treatment) finally jerked the sledge free, but their success was short-lived.

There was less and less snow and more and more slush and mud and green, green grass, and the sledge simply would not move far or long after.

"It's no good, your Majesty," said the dwarf after the sledge stuck for the second time. "We can't sledge in this thaw."

"Then we must walk," said the Queen.

The dwarf protested. "We shall never overtake them walking, not with the start they've got." The assurance with which he said this gave Edmund a very uncertain feeling. The Queen was clearly angry (and it was rather satisfying to see her snap at the dwarf in response to his prediction), and an angry Queen had not meant anything pleasant for Edmund up to now, but if the others were so far ahead that the Queen could not catch them -

He remembered the wolves, then, and his hopes, which had been rising, sank. He'd been right not to think that the breakdown of the sledge meant any good to him. When the dwarf cut the harness of the reindeer and drew out the rope, Edmund half-expected them to tie _him_ up to the sledge instead. He was relieved when the dwarf only bound his hands behind him and poked the handle of the whip into his back urging him onward. "Walk!"

It wasn't as easy to drift off into a dream while walking as it had been while riding in the sledge, especially with Queen shouting "Faster!" and the whip snapping at his shoulders and the backs of his legs every few minutes. The woods managed to seem like a dream on their own, however. The green grass spread and spread until the snow could only be found in patches and then not at all, and then bright yellow and blue flowers broke up through the green. Pink and white buds burst open on the branches of smaller trees, like popcorn bursting open in a pan, and bare branches became clothed with dark green leaves.

The fog cleared away, revealing a golden sun that brought with it all the heat of a warm spring day. Edmund's wet clothes steamed until they were quite dry and then became drenched again with perspiration. Just as Edmund realized what it must be, the dwarf stopped and turned to the Queen. "This is Spring. What are we to do? Your winter has been destroyed, I tell you! Thisis Aslan's doing."

Edmund remembered Mr. Beaver, smoke curling from his pipe as he sat back in his chair. _When he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again._

The Witch looked down at her servant in icy rage. "If either of you mention that name again," she said, including Edmund in the glare, "he will instantly be killed."

###

In the end, it did not matter if spring _had_ come, Edmund thought miserably by the time they allowed him to stop. Spring was for the Lion and its Fauns and Beavers and Foxes. Spring was for Lucy and Susan and Peter. He wasn't quite certain why the Queen was keeping him now. She clearly had no intention of making him a king.

Edmund lay on his stomach on the moss in a shaded glen while the Witch and the dwarf discussed their plans. His legs seemed like lumps of wood. He did not feel as if he could walk another step, even if the Queen demanded it. What if she turned him to stone? He was halfway there already.

Above and nearby, he heard murmuring. "Four thrones in Cair Paravel…" That was the Witch. "How if only three were filled? That would not fulfill the prophecy."

"What difference would that make now that _He_ is here?" the dwarf said.

The Queen's voice was speculative. "He may not stay long. And then - we would fall upon the three at Cair."

"Yet it might be better to keep this one." The dwarf punctuated this statement with a kick to Edmund's ribs. "For bargaining with."

Edmund did not even have the energy to cringe away from the blow or to protest. He did not mind what they said or did. If they would only let him rest there, he would not ask another thing. He did not even stir when another creature burst into the clearing, snarling and growling.

"I have seen them. They are all at the Stone Table, with HIm. They have killed my captain, Maugrim. I was hidden in the thickets and saw it all. One of the Sons of Adam killed him. Fly! Fly!"

 _Must I?_ thought Edmund dazedly. He couldn't move.

To his relief (although if he had been thinking more clearly, he would have been horrified), the Queen refused. "Summon all our people to meet me here as speedily as they can. We will fight. What? Have I not still my wand? Will not their ranks turn to stone even as they come on? Be off quickly, I have a little thing to finish here while you are away."

Eyes half-closed, Edmund heard the Wolf racing away again and sighed in a kind of miserable gratitude. A moment later, however, he was jerked to his feet and shoved against a tree. The dwarf untied the rope from Edmund's wrists and then tied them again, this time behind the tree. Edmund grunted with the pain to his shoulders and wrists and his legs buckled under him, but the dwarf ignored him, wrapping this rope around his chest and the tree until the ropes themselves were enough to keep Edmund upright.

The Queen said, "Prepare the victim," and Edmund was suddenly wide awake. She had removed her mantle and her arms were a very pale white. The dwarf unbuttoned Edmund's collar and folded it down, then jerked his head back.

She was done with him then, he realized as he recognized the sound of a sharpening blade. She wasn't even going to bother with her wand, just slit his throat right here because - he'd done what she wanted him to do?

 _Susan, Peter, Lucy…_

He ought to have something to say, Edmund thought, as the Witch approached. Heroes always had stirring last words in books, but then he wasn't a hero, was he? Her expression was chill and implacable, and how had he _ever_ thought she was kind?

The next moment chaos descended. Afterwards, Edmund remembered a great deal of shouting, the ropes that bound him to the tree going slack, and a figure on horseback snatching him up to ride away. He remembered nothing else for some time after.

#

 _A/N: Coming: Chapter Seven: Think It Mercy._


	7. Think It Mercy

A/N: Here is the final chapter. Thank you so much everyone who has followed this story to its completion, and especially those who have left reviews. I really appreciate hearing your thoughts. As always, Narnia and its inhabitants belong to C.S. Lewis, and I have no claim on them. I am well aware of the hubris of attempting to write the scene Lewis chose to gloss over, but the fact is that this is the first chapter I actually ever finished. For my own advent into Narnia fanfiction, I needed to know my version of what happened that night, and so here it is.

 **Damascus Road**

 **Chapter Seven: Think It Mercy**

" _I think it mercy if Thou wilt forget"_

~ John Donne, _Divine Meditations IX_

Narnia, in the vicinity of the Stone Table, NT 1000

Edmund woke to hooves pounding against the ground; his heart pounded just as hard. He wasn't certain whether he'd just been rescued or captured. _Rescued._ The night air was chilling, but the Queen's eyes had been colder, and she never _had_ meant anything she'd said, had she?

When the rider carrying him (but he couldn't be a _man_ , could he?) saw that Edmund was awake, they broke their flight to feed him: bread and some dried fruit and wine, far sweeter than he'd received in the Witch's house, though still nothing like the rich sweetness of Turkish Delight. He thought he remembered being offered some before he fainted. Hungry as he was, Edmund could only pick at the food, but he hoped that meant they intended more than to kill him out of hand. It would be a waste, wouldn't it?

 _It will not do to have the brat fainting on the way._

He swallowed hard and pushed the majority of the bread away. One of his rescuers, a great, cat-like beast, hissed in disapproval. Edmund's stomach clenched in terror even though the silhouette was clearly not that of a lion. Surely, the king the Beavers had described would not come this far to deal with _him_. "Why we bother with this ungrateful traitor-"

A hoof stamped the ground behind Edmund, making him jump. "If Aslan's command is not sufficient for you, Felix, nor service to his chosen, then consider that you repay Prince Peter for avenging your brother on Maugrim by bringing him his."

The words startled Edmund more than the movement. Was it true, then, what the Wolf had said? He looked back and up at the one behind him - then further up. It had not been a rider on horseback who carried him, but a centaur.

The centaur's expression was hidden in shadow, but he responded no more gently to Edmund's look of confusion than he had to Felix's murmuring. "Do you fear for your brother, son of Adam, or for the monster he slew?"

Edmund remembered the hot, metallic breath on his face, the unearthly howling as the wolfpack departed the Witch's house. "Maugrim's dead?" The words slipped out before he could stop them. There was a snort and a hiss, as his rescuers-or-captors no doubt assigned the worst of meanings to his reply. Edmund looked back down at the ground. "Peter's-" He couldn't finish the words. Alive, but they'd said nothing of the girls, and he couldn't open his mouth again to ask. Horror, as black as the night itself, felt as if it would sweep up from the ground to swallow him.

"Prince Peter lives," said the centaur, eventually. Edmund wondered if he were expected to show relief or disappointment at the news. "His royal sisters have likewise escaped harm."

They were _Peter's_ sisters, Edmund couldn't help noting. He supposed he'd forfeited the right to claim any of them. Attempting to murder one's family was a rather definite denial of kinship.

"Thank you," he whispered, without looking up.

"Upon joining us," the centaur continued in an even tone that betrayed no opinion on the subject, "their first request was that their brother be found."

Edmund did look up, then, gaping. "But-"

Ignoring the interruption, the centaur said, "Prince Peter will make a noble king."

Of course, Peter would be a prince, while he, Edmund, was-

He supposed that even in Narnia, traitors received a last meal.

###

They had not chained or bound him, but Edmund concluded that he was most likely a prisoner. They didn't really _need_ to tie him up. It wasn't as if his weary legs would carry him far even if he knew which way to go. If he tried to escape, the Queen might find him, or her wolves, or even some of her enemies less inclined than the centaur to protect him on their way to… wherever they were going.

It turned out not to be much further once they set off again. At least, it seemed a short (far too short) time before Edmund's escort (guard) slowed and then stopped before a waiting sentry. The griffin, lion body regal even as it inclined its feathered head, murmured a respectful, "General," and glanced up the hill behind it. "He waits."

"Thank you, Sunlance," the centaur replied, even as Edmund wondered (not really wondered, he'd known even before the centaur spoke the name earlier) who waited and for what. Then they were passing between quiet tents and still forges and up the hill to where the Lion stood.

The moonlight brightened the hilltop, but Edmund suspected _he_ did not need its illumination. He remembered how it had shone on the stone lion in the Witch's courtyard, how he had mocked the poor creature (was it awake in its prison? Had it known? Did _he_ know?), and wondered how he could have mistaken _it_ for _him_. He'd been angry then, angry enough to destroy everything he touched, almost as angry as he was frightened. Lost in his thoughts, Edmund was too slow to protest when the centaur set him on his feet before the Lion, bowed deeply, and backed away, leaving him there.

He hadn't been frightened enough, he thought as the Lion turned stern, solemn eyes on him. Edmund fell back a step, but only one. That way was the Witch and the Knife, and even if they were still slightly less terrifying than the massive claws and sharp teeth in front of him, the Lion's eyes held him, stern and solemn and almost… _sad_. It was like Dad's disappointed look, like Peter on the way to the lamppost, only a thousand times worse.

All the weariness of the past two days set in, and Edmund's legs folded under him. Instead of grass wet with dew, however, he collapsed into thick, soft fur. Then he was being lowered gently to the ground between the paws of the Lion. He looked away from them. Hidden or not the claws must be sharp.

He should say something. He couldn't think of anything.

"Son of Adam," the Lion's voice rumbled, deep and penetrating, "Do you know who you are?"

Of all the things Edmund had expected, that had not been one of them. "I - I don't understand."

Patiently, as if the speaker had all the time in the world, the deep voice repeated, "Do you know who you are?"

Then he did know. Shoulders sagging with the weight of it, Edmund whispered, "a traitor." He looked down at the heavy paws again, waiting for the claws to unsheathe.

But angry as his brother had been at the lamppost, Peter had never struck him, and neither did the Lion. Nor did the deep voice speak a word either to confirm or deny Edmund's self-identification. Instead, almost in a whisper, it said, "Look at me."

Edmund looked into the golden eyes and gasped. There was Herbert Stephens's bloodied face and Father's sorrowful one, Mother's injured expression at the train station and Lucy's tears, Susan's disappointment, and the worry he'd never before acknowledged in Peter. There was the fearful confusion of the forest Animals, frozen in the middle of their celebrating, and the mournful stone faun in the Witch's castle. There was his hand tracing soot on the enchanted lion and selecting another piece of Turkish Delight and shoving Lucy out of his favorite hiding spot. There were a thousand other moments, petty and spiteful and cruel, until Edmund thought the claws would have been kinder, and finally, they were the Lion's golden eyes again, as solemn and sad as ever, but no longer stern. "I know," said the deep voice, and Edmund realized he was crying without knowing when he'd started. "I understand."

"I'm sorry." It was such a small, weak thing to say in the face of all he'd caused, all that the Lion had shown him. Even more so in the face of the Lion's words. The thought that someone so great and _good_ could understand such bile was awful and wonderful at the same time.

Sorrowfully, the Lion said, "You have been filled with hatred." Edmund looked down. "For your family, for me-"

"I don't-" he protested, but that was a lie or had been until a very short time ago. He'd avoided using the Lion's name even in his thoughts and not just for fear of the Witch's threats. "I'm sorry - Aslan."

The great head bent towards Edmund's until he could look nowhere else. "And for yourself, dear one."

Unable to tear his eyes from Aslan's, Edmund hunched smaller. That at least was deserved, wasn't it?

 _...cowards...poisonous little beast...traitor..._

"What are you going to do with me, Sir?" Edmund asked.

"Do you not know?" The deep voice almost sounded amused, as if Aslan were laughing gently. "Adam's Bone. The Beavers told you of the prophecy. You were made to be a king."

 _Adam's Flesh and Adam's Bone sits at Cair Paravel in throne._ He'd heard bits and pieces as he slipped out of the house on the dam, but surely…

 _Four thrones at Cair Paravel,_ the Witch had murmured before sharpening her knife. And to think he'd believed she would give him a crown.

"She - _she_ said…" Aslan's promises, Edmund knew instinctively, were nothing like the Witch's, but _surely_ the Lion could not intend to put him on one of those four thrones. Not after everything.

"Edmund." All amusement had left the deep voice, and Edmund shivered to hear his name in such tones. "Son of Adam, that the Witch sought to twist my plan for you does not change that it was mine before you or she set foot upon this land. You will reign beside your brother and sisters."

It was a rebuke, but a promise as well. Emboldened by that, Edmund dared a question. "But I betrayed them, and _you_ , and _everyone_. Shouldn't I be…" He trailed off, courage gone.

"Punished?" The Lion completed his thought for him.

Miserably, Edmund nodded. He still knelt between the Lion's paws. If Aslan _chose_... It would be quick, at least, he thought. He hoped. He didn't _want_ to be, but...

Traitors deserved to be punished.

"But they do not always get what they deserve," said Aslan, gently. He stepped back.

Terrified as he'd been in the Lion's shadow, Edmund missed the warmth of the large body as Aslan withdrew.

"There is always a price," said Aslan. "But it is not always the expected one." His voice took on an even deeper and richer tone. "Rise, son of Adam, and hear your sentence."

Legs trembling still, Edmund stood. "You will reign beside your brother and sisters," Aslan said again. "Under me and your high king."

"Peter?" said Edmund, then reddened at his own interruption. It made sense, although what Peter would say to this - to any of it - was a sobering thought in itself. _He must hate me. They all must_. But the centaur had said they'd asked for him. "I'm sorry," he said, both to the Lion in front of him and to his absent siblings. "I'll try to do better."

Aslan nodded, although whether in answer to the question or acknowledgement of the promise or both, Edmund could not be sure. "You will serve Narnia and her inhabitants wisely and justly, until you perish or I release you."

Wisely and justly. Edmund swallowed. That was a rather more daunting task than ordering people about and punishing the ones you disliked, as the Witch did.

"You wish to make amends," the Lion said.

 _How_ he wished it. Lifeless gray faces filled his mind's eye at the thought, and he said hopelessly, "I can't."

"No," said Aslan. "You cannot." Edmund hung his head. "But you can begin." Something almost like a kiss brushed his forehead. "And I will finish."

The touch warmed him, and he looked up again.

"What about you, Sir? Aslan?" There was no doubt in Edmund's mind that he owed the Lion as much or more than he did the rest, especially when Aslan's sentence could easily be termed reward - even answering to his brother seemed less burdensome that it had only days earlier.

"Son of Adam, it will be difficult," warned Aslan. "More difficult than all the rest."

Edmund wet his lips and tried to speak. He was no longer afraid of being torn to pieces and devoured by an angry beast or avenging angel (it would defeat the point if Aslan truly meant for him to be a king, after all, and it was somehow impossible to believe that the Lion would say such a thing and not mean it) but it was brought again to his mind that Aslan _could_ if he _chose_. He nodded in lieu of words. _Anything._

His silent response seemed to be enough because the rumbling voice gentled once again. "Will you trust me, my son? Will you give me your life?"

Trust Aslan? Of course, Edmund trusted him, even if he wasn't entirely sure how or what the second request meant. _It will be more difficult than all the rest._ But hadn't he already? Could he say anything but, "Yes, Aslan."

Then the Lion breathed on him-his breath not at all as Maugrim's had been, but warm and sweet and reminding him somehow of picnics by the river when Father was still at home-and the weariness and the pain and the sick, gnawing _hunger_ he'd almost forgotten to notice were gone. Edmund's legs failed him for a different reason than exhaustion this time. Once again, the Lion moved to catch him, and Edmund did what he hadn't dared to do before and clung.

###

They spoke more eventually, or rather Aslan spoke, and Edmund listened, the emptiness that had yawned within him since before the Witch or the war or that awful school filling up with the Lion's words. The hilltop turned rosy and then golden until the Stone Table behind Aslan seemed to burn with it. Morning had come.

"It is time," said Aslan and nodded at something past Edmund's shoulder.

Edmund looked behind him and down the hill. The camp had come awake with activity, busy with talking beasts and creatures he'd only known from fairy tales, bustling and alive unlike the stone victims that filled the Witch's courtyard. What drew his attention, though, were the three figures standing outside a large gold pavilion. They looked foreign in the rich, entirely un-English clothes they wore, but they were - unmistakably - Peter, Susan, and Lucy.

They must have seen him because Lucy gave a shriek audible even above the clamour of hammers on anvils and swords on shields. "Edmund!"

She started to run towards them, but Peter caught her in one protective arm. He bent as if saying something to her, and then all three began walking up the hill.

Edmund swallowed and turned back, pleading wordlessly.

Gently, Aslan said, "Remember, my child, who you are."

 _Traitor. You wish to make amends._ He couldn't very well forget. His hands felt cold and damp. Edmund buried them in his pockets, eyes on the grass.

The Lion shook his mane, as if once again hearing Edmund's thoughts. "Now, you are mine."

 _You are mine_. He clung to that thought, as he watched his family approach. They might not want him back (please, let them take him back), but he would still belong to Aslan.

"Here is your brother," rumbled the Lion's deep voice. "And-there is no need to speak to him of what is past."

With that, Aslan looked to him, but Edmund's stomach still twisted with apprehension. It took two tries before he could manage a tentative, "Hello." He held out a hand to shake, wavering between the three until he settled on Susan. As horrible as he'd been to all of them, he'd done the least to her. "I'm sorry." It sounded just as weak now as it had before. "I _am_ sorry."

Susan shook it, looking almost as uncomfortable as he felt. "It's all right."

Edmund turned to his youngest sister next. He'd done far more to Lucy, even before going to the Witch. "I'm-"

Lucy broke from under Peter's arm and ignored Edmund's offered hand to throw her arms around him. "It's all right, Ed," she said into his chest. "We forgive you." As simply as if he'd knocked her into another puddle instead of trying to kill her, he thought. Edmund returned the hug awkwardly, his vision blurring. A moment later, he felt Susan's hand on his shoulder.

"Are _you_ all right?" She looked at him critically. Edmund ducked his head and shrugged. Amazing how Susan's fussing could be welcome after only a couple of days without it.

"Edmund."

He raised his eyes from Lucy's blond hair to where Peter watched them seriously. The girls broke away to look at their oldest brother as well. There was no _reason_ for Peter to forgive him, no reason for any of them to forgive him.

Swallowing, Edmund glanced at Aslan, then back to his brother. They'd asked for him, the centaur had said. Even when he was… He offered his hand a third time. "I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter had been looking at the Lion as well. He turned back, seeming to struggle with himself, and then accepted Edmund's hand. "It's all right."

Edmund hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until it returned. It wasn't _all right_. They all knew that, but they were going to let him try, at least. If the Narnians were willing to do the same - a leopard loped up the hill towards them, the sleek lines of its body reminding him of Felix - perhaps starting over might be less daunting than it seemed.

And if they weren't willing - Edmund looked at the Lion who had turned his head at the leopard's approach - there was still Aslan's promise. _You are mine._ He would try anyway.

 _Fin._


End file.
